


The Price of Gold (Buried Alive)

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assassination attempts, Conspiracy, Dain is actually a nice guy, Drama, Kink Meme, M/M, Thorin Has Issues, and creepy, even Bilbo, everybody has a secret agenda, got political, ptsd!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 115,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a kink meme prompt (abridged): Thorin (accidentally) buries Bilbo alive under gold </p>
<p>Once the battle is over and Bilbo rescued, Thorin wishes to make amends. But others have set their eyes on the riches in the mountain, dwarven nobles would rather see Dain on the throne of Erebor, Thranduil has concerns due to the dragon sickness and Bard worries about oncoming winter. Dues have to be paid and the affair around the Arkenstone resolved.</p>
<p>Making amends is not easy in a surrounding ripe with intrigues,trauma and murder attempts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I grabbed the prompt and ran with it. 
> 
> Warnings: Please proceed with caution. A little blood, some violence, and the imagery surrounding being locked in a chest may be triggering (claustrophobia). 
> 
> [Original prompt and fill on the Hobbit kink meme.](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/6263.html?thread=14487159#t14487159)
> 
> Also, the lovely [Quel](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/) drew a [sketch of Bilbo locked in the chest](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/129028134572/quel-is-the-greatest-to-ever-great-and-we-should). Please take a look!

“Prepare for battle,” Thorin tells his company, and they disperse. Down below, Bilbo can hear horses galloping away, even as the sensation of battle draws near. His head is spinning, and the notion of an army of orcs and goblins approaching seems almost surreal – since there are so many other feelings tearing at his heart.

Thorin’s gaze falls upon him and the fury has not abated.

Instead, it had turned into cold hatred. For a moment Bilbo thinks Thorin is going to toss him from the wall – because now that there is a battle approaching, the dwarves have no need for a burden. And Gandalf has left with the men and elves to prepare for their own part in the fight.

His heart stops when Thorin pulls him up by his arm. The grip is hard, and hurts, and Bilbo can’t quite stop a pained gasp from escaping. Thorin pays it no mind, and proceeds to drag him off, back into the mountain. Bilbo can only stumble along – he almost has to run to keep up, and his head aches, and Thorin’s grip forces his arm into an odd position.

He hears footsteps and the clatter of metal nearby, but Bilbo catches no sight of the other dwarves. Erebor is still too unfamiliar for him to recognize where Thorin is bringing him, though once the he spies the golden coins on the floor he realizes they are in the treasury.

Bilbo bites his tongue – Thorin’s silence is oppressive, full or anger, and he dares not draw his attention further (even though the grip on his arm hurts). From the corner of his eye he sees Thorin heading toward a wooden chest – then his foot catches on something, he stumbles, and only the grip Thorin has on his arm keeps him from falling.

The dwarf doesn’t stop or slow, instead he drags Bilbo along until the hobbit manages to get his feet under him again. His knees are bruised by that time, and he thinks his ankle might be bleeding, but bites his lip. 

Then they are next to the chest, which is really more of a rectangular crate (as far as Bilbo can tell from the corner of his eye), and then the world tilts abruptly. Bilbo belatedly notices Thorin has pushed him, he’s falling, and then his head slams against something hard, and his vision fades out.

Bilbo has barely caught his bearings, when the lid slams shut. His vision flickers, pain traverses his spine, and his left arm is bent at an uncomfortable angle behind his back. For a split moment he lingers on the brink of unconsciousness – then he slams back into himself, and pain explodes in his shoulder and the back of his head.

He scrabbles to get his arm out from under his back – it hurts too much to breathe, and his spine is overstretched, and his right elbow slams against firm wood. There’s wood against the top of his head and the soles of his feet, too, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get his arm moved, now. There’s wood on his left, too, and he can’t move as he wants to, but he squirms (because he can’t stand to be like this), and eventually his arm comes free.

He may have screamed, and there’s some noise outside, but Bilbo doesn’t care, nor can he place it. His arm burns, and his shoulder is probably dislocated. He is gasping for air when his vision stops flickering between white and black, and he realizes he’s in total blackness.

The events come together.

Outside, footsteps move away from him. Wood to all his sides – he saw the chest from the corner of his eye, just moments ago, when Thorin had his arm in a painful grip. He can’t …

Bilbo instinctively pushes against the lid with his good arm – he has to stretch it completely, but the lid won’t budge. And the footsteps grow distant.

“Thorin!” he screams, and doesn’t care if the desperation in his voice is obvious, “Thorin! Wait! Don’t go! I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry! Let me out! Please!”

The footsteps don’t stop, nor do they slow down.

“Please!” Bilbo screams again, and this time his voice breaks. He doesn’t even realize he’s pounding against the lid, and that tears stream down his cheeks.

“Please,” he sobs, and it’s too choked to be heard.

Outside, the door slams shut. Something shifts – Bilbo hears it; the bright clinging and clattering of golden coins, jewels and gemstones. But it’s not quite sound, it’s loud, louder, and suddenly Bilbo understands that the balance of the entire treasure hill has been upset.

Then the chest begins to tremble and his heart stops.

_Nononono_ , Bilbo thinks, not this, too. Not – he can’t finish the thought, because the box tilts – he only feels it, and it’s disturbing, because the blackness doesn’t change at all. Then the ground rumbles, and the chest rolls over. Bilbo barely manages to get an arm over his face (it’s too tight), and then the wooden floor (side? He doesn’t know) of the chest slams against his ribcage, elbow, knees and shoulder – and the pain makes his vision go white.

He doesn’t know how long it took, or when the box stopped rolling.

Bilbo opens his eyes, though all he sees is sheer darkness. Tentatively, he draws a deep breath – his entire body aches, there’s a fierce ache in his shoulder, and Bilbo is careful to lie perfectly still. At least nothing feels broken.

The relief is short-lived, because he is still trapped in a chest. One that now is probably buried under piles of gold, too.

***

Nightfall brings bats and orcs and goblins. The battle is fierce; and even the united forces of men, elves and dwarves struggle. Thorin is in the thick of the fighting. He barely takes notice of the companions at his side.

His enemy tonight is Azog.

Thorin then does not pay much attention to the turn of the battle, or how hard-pressed all are to defend their positions. Instead of staying, he charges ahead.

***

Time is impossible to measure in the absolute darkness of the box. Already, Bilbo feels as if he had spent an eternity inside; the wood uncomfortably, digging into his back. He tries to stay in one position for longer, but once he settles, and the rustle of clothes fades, he only hears his breathing and his own heartbeat (both too fast).

Moving is painful, but at least the pain distracts his thoughts.

Bilbo fears to let them wander. Already the darkness lasts heavy on him. He doesn’t think Thorin will leave him here – even if only to publicly execute him for his betrayal – but the longer he lies still, the more precarious this assumption grows.

There’s a battle raging outside.

Or is it? Bilbo doesn’t hear a thing. Perhaps Erebor’s walls are too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps this chest is soundproof? Perhaps the battle has not yet started, and only minutes have passed since Thorin left him here – or perhaps the battle is already over?

Bilbo’s stomach churns, and something in his chest clenches.

Perhaps all are dead. Kili, with his bright smile, Ori, with his books, Bofur, and his jokes – maybe they all have perished, together with Bard and Thranduil and Gandalf. His mind conjures an image of the slopes of Erebor covered in blood and broken bodies.

And nobody to remember one hobbit locked in a chest.

The idea steals Bilbo’s breath, and he banishes it.

No, at least some ought to have survived. And Thorin, too, because he is King, and Kings are protected, even if they seek out the front lines. Maybe they’ve already won, and are now celebrating. This brings almost a smile to Bilbo’s lips (and calms his aching heart) – he can see them toasting, drinking, singing – maybe a bit worse for wear, but nonetheless alive and victorious.

They’ll come for him in time, then.

Most likely, however, the more rational part of Bilbo’s mind cautions, is that the battle is far from over. He has no idea of what time it is, can’t tell – he wishes it was close to morning, but in all honesty, it may not yet be nightfall.

***

The tide of the battle only changes once Beorn and the eagles arrive. Had they been a second later, Thorin’s life would have been ended by a luck spear, thrown by a goblin. Instead, it misses and Thorin takes off Azog’s head.

He sinks to his knees, then, exhausted rather than accomplished. It feels like a burden lifted, something in his chest shifts – though he can’t linger on it. Around him, the battle continues, and he spies Fili and Kili, back to back, and alone among a sea of enemies.

***

It’s been too long, Bilbo thinks, too long.

It feels as if the chest is shrinking, and he wishes he could stretch his limbs. Instead, there’s hard, unforgiving wood in all directions. His back aches, but he can’t breathe on his stomach, and his shoulder hurts too much to lie on his side.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but it must have been days, now.  Sleep won’t come, only fear and panic. The air is stuffy in this chest, and maybe he’ll suffocate – though he should already have, by then.

Bilbo’s heart gives a painful jolt, as even this fate is denied to him.

He starts to think he has been forgotten about. Or maybe Thorin is too hurt to remember right now. He doesn’t want to think that he has been left here deliberately.

Something hot burns in his eyes.

He’s thirsty, too. Before long, he’ll die of thirst. Not hunger – Bilbo has heard tales of starvation, and knows it takes very, very long. And he doesn’t feel hungry, at all. He’d skip food for a month if somebody would let him out of this … coffin, now.

A shaky breath leaves him, and Bilbo uses his good arm to wipe the tears away. It sends a spark of pain through his other shoulder and the contact between his hand and his face anchors him, at least a little.

Outside, the silence lingers.

“Hello!” Bilbo calls out spontaneously. Has been doing this, for a while, now. Perhaps some passerby might hear him – though none has, yet.

Perhaps all are dead. Perhaps nobody will come for him.

Or they won and Thorin decided this to be his fate. To die in this chest – alone, in utter darkness.

Bilbo’s heart clenches and the pain is physical. He wants to curl up, but can’t, and neither can he stop the tears. He doesn’t want to die here – not so alone, not without at least a chance of explaining his actions or apologizing. Perhaps Thorin will never forgive him, but he hopes that at least the others will understand. He won’t even ask for their forgiveness.

He’d just like a chance to say goodbye.

(And if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to die at all. He wants to go home; home to his books and pillows and quilts. Where it’s warm, and peaceful, not cold and dark. He wants to see the green hills again, listen to the tunes his neighbor hums when he’s working in his garden, and walk the familiar path down to the market. Bilbo has not realized how much he missed all of this until now; and now he may never see it again).

He doesn’t know how long he cries.

***

Thorin has regrouped with the majority of his company. Victory is close, though the fighting remains vicious. Perhaps his early success has made him weary, or the exhaustion takes its toll, but he fails to notice a goblin sneaking up behind him.

The hit against his head is too fast to notice, and then there is only darkness.

***

Crying leaves Bilbo exhausted, and still unable to sleep. Or perhaps he has slept and never realized? By now he wishes the darkness would just take him, pull him under and not let him go. Or to have broken his neck when the box fell.

In a bout of mad desperation he throws his weight against the hard wood, again, and again. Just one more tumble, and he’ll stick out his head, not protect it, and let his neck snap. He won’t see the Shire again, but really, anything but this suffocating darkness.

And shouldn’t he already be dead of thirst? Has only so little time passed? If so, Bilbo doesn’t want to wait any longer. He hopes for it to end soon, because the darkness is driving him mad.

He’s almost certain by now that he’s either been forgotten, or that Thorin chose this. It tears painfully at his heart – this is beyond cruel, even in light of his betrayal. How could Thorin do this – it’s barbaric, and utterly horrible. Is this revenge? Abandoning Bilbo to perish in this chest – so that nobody has to see him ever again, that he can be forgotten, that they won’t even need a coffin?

He’s crying again, but he doesn’t notice.

His heart is screaming, clutching at straws, desperate to explain away this nightmare. But the darkness lingers, the silence continues, and the stark, rational voices in Bilbo’s mind win out. He’ll die.

And for a moment he tries to accept it. Because unpleasant as it is, it’s not painful. It’s not like being torn apart by trolls, or eaten alive, or slaughtered by orcs.

The attempt fails. He doesn’t want to be alone, not now, and he wants the silence to go away. Even if it’s only to hear his friends scream at him, even if it’s only the howling of wargs; anything but the silence. He wants the darkness to disappear – to feel the sun on his skin, just one more time, because aren’t even those ruled to die granted one last wish?

Just once more he’d like to see his friends, his home, the sun… just something but this darkness.

“Please,” he whispers to the empty air, “Please, just this once.”

He doesn’t know when the whispers turn into screams. Or when he stops hearing them.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin retrieves Bilbo. All is not well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very, very much for your kudos and comments! 
> 
> No particular warnings for this chapter, but please keep in mind that the imagery of being locked in a small space may be triggering. Also, again, self-beta'd. 
> 
> That said, enjoy?

Thorin wakes slowly. He is laid out on something soft, and his body aches. It’s a dull ache, though, and it feels as if his injuries have been cared for. He opens his eyes and finds himself staring up at off-color blue canvas. There’s a bit of light filtering in, and outside he hears voices.

But not the roar of battle.

Over then, and they must have won, if Thorin is alive and being cared for. It must be around dawn, judging by the light, and the noises outside tell him, that clean-up is still ongoing. He then turns his attention to his own injuries and finds his chest wrapped firmly – probably a cut he barely remembers receiving. His knuckles are bloody, but he can move his hands and wriggle his toes. His head aches – he remembers receiving a blow knocking him out, so this is to be expected.

However, his mind and memories appear intact, and somehow he feels lighter this morning. And his head a little clearer.

He can’t wonder at this for a long time, because then the tent flap is pulled aside and Balin comes in. The white-haired dwarf looks pleasantly surprised to see Thorin awake, and steps closer.

“How are you?”

“Well enough,” Thorin replies. His tongue feels sluggish – he probably has been given something for the pain, then. “The others?”

“Alive and well,” Balin replies, though his smile remains half-hearted. Thorin’s stomach rolls with unbidden foreboding.

“Balin?” he inquires.

The other dwarf sighs. “Well, Master Baggins is unaccounted for. Nobody has seen him during the battle, though – we currently hope he slipped away before it started.”

It’s then that Thorin remembers, and ice floods his chest. Bilbo Baggins did not slip away – Thorin recalls the feel of flesh underneath his fingers, how he had wrapped his hand around Bilbo’s upper arm so hard he felt the bone beneath it.

He must have paled, then.

“Thorin?” Balin asks.

Thorin sees the chest – not the largest in the treasure, certainly not, but conveniently empty. How he’d looked down on Bilbo’s still form within it – like a coffin – as he had slammed the lid shut. The screams that had followed him out – and the dull roar of tumbling gold afterward.

“I … I need to go inside,” Thorin gasps out. He feels faint – Balin would know if somebody had found Bilbo, but that he doesn’t means that Bilbo is still in there.

Balin raises an eyebrow. Thorin knows he’s injured, and that he shouldn’t move, but Bilbo has been in this box since last afternoon, and he can’t let another moment go to waste. Not when now Thorin finally understands what Bilbo attempted.

That Bilbo never meant to betray him.

That…

“I know where Master Baggins is,” Thorin declares.

Balin observes him, and somehow he must understand that Thorin is behind Bilbo’s disappearance – and also understands Thorin’s need to resolve this.

“Very well,” he says, “I’ll go with you, though. And we’ll take Dwalin, too, because I can’t carry you.”

The old joke fails to draw a smile. Thorin thinks how small the chest was, and he can’t imagine what Bilbo must be feeling. It must be beyond his worst nightmare – and he only hopes they’ll get there as fast as possible.

Balin, however, works magic. He manages to let Thorin slip inside unseen and unbothered, and Dwalin follows silently behind them. Thorin is unsteady, and has to lean heavily on Balin, but he pushes himself forward as fast as he can.

As they head to the treasury, Thorin’s thought grow evermore frantic. What if they are too late – what if Bilbo has suffocated? What if his heart gave out? What if they open the chest to find a dead body, one with fear and pain written all over his gentle features?

(He doesn’t think he could stand it. Already he regrets how he treated Bilbo up on the parapets, how he let his anger and gold-lust cloud his vision. To learn that Bilbo paid for it with his life would be unbearable).

To his horror, the mountains of treasure have shifted – the chest is no longer visible. Thorin recalls the roar behind him – he’d slammed the door, half hoping for this to happen. It has, and his heart is pounding so fast he feels dizzy.

“Do you need to sit down?” Balin asks, surveying the gold and gems before them.

Thorin shakes his head. He needs a moment to find his voice, though, “A chest… A medium-sized wooden chest. It was over there –“ he points at a spot right in front of him, even though now there’s nothing but coins and stones.

“We’re looking for a chest?” Dwalin asks, “I thought…”

Balin glances sharply at his brother. He probably already has it worked out, and Thorin is only glad there’s no judgment yet. Not before they’ve found Bilbo.

“Oh,” Dwalin mutters, sounding horrified, and Thorin feels like a monster. (And that’s the truth. What he did to Bilbo was monstrous, horrible and worse than the torments orcs bestow on their prisoners).

Balin clears his throat. “Master Baggins?” he calls out, loud and clear, “Could you please knock or somehow let us know where you are?”

The room remains silent and Thorin’s heart sinks.

If Bilbo is dead…

“Let’s search,” Dwalin says, steps forward, and begins to shift the gold aside. It’s not long before Balin and Thorin join. They discover the chest relatively fast. It lies upside down, and Balin frowns.

“We’ll have to turn it over to open it,” he says, and then knocks on the wood. “Master Baggins?”

Once again, there’s no reply. For a moment Thorin wonders if they got the wrong chest, but then Dwalin carefully begins to turn it. And all three of them hear the thud as something inside shifts.

There’s a moment of hesitation before Thorin steps forward. He doesn’t dare to breathe – so many horrible outcomes that await him – suddenly he wonders if he shouldn’t run and forget about it. If Bilbo’s not dead yet, he’ll be soon, and he could let everybody think the hobbit escaped …

But he also knows he’d never live with the guilt.

So he takes a deep breath, steels his heart as much as he can and undoes the lock holding the lid closed. Thorin slowly opens the lid and a gust of warm, stale air escapes. The light reveals what he feared – a limb body, head tilted aside, and one shoulder painfully dislocated. Tear tracks cover Bilbo’s face, along with splotches of blood and dirt – his knuckles are bruised, and full of splinters – and Thorin feels like falling onto his knees and crying himself.

“Let’s get him out of there, at least,” Balin mutters, and all Thorin can suddenly think of how much this chest resembles a coffin. He barely notices Dwalin stepping up next to him and carefully bending down to lift Bilbo.

In Dwalin’s arms, Bilbo looks like a child. The light of the treasury reveals the strain this had on the hobbit – even now, his face looks haunted. Balin spreads his coat and gestures for Dwalin to set the hobbit down. Balin’s face is grim, and Thorin knows he is losing two of his oldest friends – but he brought this upon himself, and he will not fault them for not forgiving him this.

Dwalin tilts his head, and hesitates.

Then, instead of setting Bilbo down, he glances up. “He’s alive.”

Thorin’s heart skips a beat. Balin brightens, but still gestures for Dwalin to put the hobbit down so he may look on him. It’s almost painful to see how much care Dwalin takes, when all Thorin can remember is his own gruff actions. Bilbo’s actions have made him forget that in reality, the hobbit is a small creature, and a dwarf of Thorin’s strength can easily break his bones.

Balin may not be a healer, but he has experience and knowledge, and checks Bilbo’s head and chest for injuries. Eventually, he leans back. “Alive and no fatal injuries,” he declares, and Dwalin sighs in relief, “His pulse is weak, though – we should get him to a healer sooner rather than later.”

He glances at Thorin, and Thorin abruptly realizes his friend is asking whether he’ll allow Bilbo a healer. It’s horrifying, but not surprising. After all, Thorin locked Bilbo in a chest, so he may very well be capable of having him denied medical assistance for it may tarnish Thorin’s reputation.

“Of course…” he stammers, sounding as lost as he feels. Balin remains understandably unsympathetic.

Dwalin clears his throat. “We should set the shoulder first,” he advises, “It’ll hurt him all the way to the healers, otherwise. Even if he’s unconscious. And this way, the pain won’t be too bad.”

Thorin, like Dwalin, has dislocated enough limbs to recognize the logic. He’ll leave this to Balin, however, since he mentioned concern at Bilbo’s pulse, and Thorin understand that this with shock may prove a fatal combination. Transport, then, is just as risky as setting it.

“Do it,” Balin rules.

Dwalin doesn’t even need help to extend the pressure needed. He’s quick about the motions – familiar as they are – but the click of bones setting is joined by a choked scream.

Thorin freezes as Bilbo’s eyes flutter open, and the hobbit gasps for breath, squirming under Dwalin’s gentle grip. Fresh tears roll over his cheeks, and he makes pained little sounds, that drive a spike right through Thorin’s heart.

“Master Baggins,” Balin calls out, softly, and rests a hand on Bilbo’s good arm, “Calm down, please, you are safe.”

Dwalin keeps one hand on the shoulder to keep it from moving. The other one runs through Bilbo’s curls in a soothing motion. Thorin stands a step behind Balin, watching helplessly. He dares not speak, doesn’t even know what to say – there are no words of apology in any language on Middle Earth to express what he is feeling.

Balin and Dwalin manage to calm Bilbo down, and finally the hobbit’s eyes focus.

“Balin?” he mumbles and his voice is hoarse.

He must have screamed for help, Thorin thinks, and again feels like a monster. Screamed, and nobody ever heard – and what if Thorin had died, what if nobody had found Bilbo—he doesn’t dare to complete this thought. It’s choking him, physically, to even imagine what he almost caused.

Not that is lessens what he did cause.

Bilbo is trembling violently, and Balin is, once again, gently talking. Asking Bilbo to calm down, to relax, telling him that he need not worry, that everything is alright. It seems to be working, as Bilbo’s breathing evens out.

Then, for some reason, Bilbo tilts his head and his eyes find Thorin.

The reaction is immediate. The hobbit makes an aborted attempt to shuffle backwards, eyes blown large in unmitigated panic. He isn’t breathing, Thorin realizes, as Balin surges forward, but before anyone can do a thing, Bilbo slumps over, unconscious again.

His breathing is fast and shallow, eerie in the treasury. Balin takes his pulse with a frown on his face, but eventually leans back with a loud sigh.

“He’ll need a quiet place to recover. And some kingsfoil, if there’s any left,” he says.

Dwalin begins to wrap the large fur coat around Bilbo’s small frame, and Thorin finally finds himself capable of movement. His entire body feels stiff, foreign – guilt and terror freezing him.

“Take my tent,” he mutters. It’s large and airy, but nobody will dare to stumble inside carelessly.

Balin raises an eyebrow. “And where are you going to recover?”

And then Thorin realizes that his body is numb not only from terror, but also from pain. But it is a dull ache, smothered by healers and irrelevant before this greater travesty. He shrugs, then. Perhaps his nephews will share their space; and there should be some chambers in Erebor at least vaguely habitable.

At least habitable enough for one as monstrous as him.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angsting begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews and kudos! ^___^ 
> 
> (Unrelated, but somehow I think my writings here are more widely read than the stuff I write academically.)

Never in his life will Thorin forget the moment they carried Bilbo’s unconscious body out of Erebor and over to the tents. It feels as if everybody present – man, dwarf or elf – stops what they were doing to watch the small, silent procession.

Thorin keeps his head straight, staring ahead. Guilt and injury would see him bowed, but he has to be strong for his people. Madness and grief have led him astray before; he cannot allow himself to falter again.

Though now, most eyes rest on the hobbit.

Of course, after the scene on the parapets everybody recognizes Bilbo. The one who stole the Arkenstone to stop a senseless battle. Who offered his own share of the treasure to elves and men. And all of them watched as Thorin threatened to have Bilbo killed – and are watching now, as a very pale and still hobbit is carried out of Erebor.

The silence is suffocating.

Then an elf steps determinedly into their path – Thorin recognizes on of Thranduil’s sons, the hair a shade darker than his father’s, and his bearing not quite so icy. His blue eyes are fixed on Bilbo, and he forgoes all curtsies (and for once Thorin is glad, because while an elvish prince should pay his respects to a dwarf king, the king then also should honor the prince. And Thorin feels this is beyond him, now).

“What befell the hobbit?” he asks.

It is Balin who sighs. “Misfortune,” he answers.

The elf’s features then relax slightly. “But he lives?”

And only elvish eyes could have spied the small movements of Bilbo breathing.

“He does,” Balin replies, “And his injuries are no worse than scrapes.”

“This gladdens me to hear,” the prince says, “But it seems some shadow lingers over his spirit?”

Again, Balin confirms the sharp observation.

“Perhaps, if you shall allow it, our healers know some remedies for maladies as such,” the prince suggests, “In this we will offer our full assistance.”

Balin manages a polite smile. “This is a generous offer, indeed. And we will recall it, should the need arise.”

And with that, the elvish group steps back and Thorin, Dwalin and Balin carry on. In the back of his mind Thorin knows it was ill done – how he left Balin to speak in his stead before all eyes. Though he is injured, so at least his odd behavior has an excuse.

Even if it’s not the truth.

In a twisted stroke of fate he’s almost glad Fili and Kili have been ordered to rest abed – as Balin and Dwalin, they’d naturally be able to connect the dots. To draw the line between Bilbo’s condition and Thorin’s outrage.

He doesn’t think he would survive their questions.

Or explaining what he did.

Still, seeing other members of the company drives a blade into Thorin’s stomach each time, until he feels like an empty shell held together by strings. Gloin and Bombur do not approach them, and their expressions remain unchanged, but their eyes are hard. Oin is too busy, on the other side of the camp, but Thorin fears what he’ll think once he sees Bilbo.

Propriety makes Dori avert his gaze, though Nori makes no attempt of hiding his glare, and Ori joins him. Which is painful, because Thorin knows just how much respect Ori had for him at the beginning of this journey – and all he found then must have been disappointing.

Bofur is the one to stumble forward, followed closely by Bifur. The usually cheery dwarf gently runs his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, and then produced a very stained handkerchief to wipe the tear tracks from Bilbo’s cheeks – the action has Thorin’s stomach lurch.

And he finds Balin looking awkward, too, because somehow none of them thought to clean Bilbo’s face before carrying him outside. Bofur, however, says nothing beyond his inquiries to Bilbo’s health, an inaudible promise whispered for Bilbo alone to hear – and then he turns to leave. He doesn’t even look at Thorin. Bifur is the one to cast a glance over his shoulder, and it reads unmitigated accusation.

Even if he knows this is comeuppance for his actions, Thorin still feels glad when they disappear within the privacy of the large tent. The cot has been stuffed with additional pillows, and while the size was just right for Thorin, Bilbo is dwarfed by it.

“I’ll go and fetch a healer, then,” Balin declares, as Dwalin settles the hobbit, “And whether there’s some…”

He doesn’t get to complete the sentence, as a tall, grey-clad wizard storms into the tent.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf thunders, “What have you done to your hobbit?”

The wizard does not wait for a reply but pushes past Balin, and Dwalin has to take a step aside not to be shoved. The brothers remain silent – angry wizards are not pleasant, and Gandalf has addressed Thorin, after all.

Gandalf’s hand hovers over Bilbo’s brow for a moment, and whatever he finds provides a little relief. However, when Gandalf turns back to the dwarves, his fury has not lessened.

“What did you do?” he asks, quieter this time, and it grants his voice all the more weight. The hairs on Thorin’s arms stand in response, and he has to suppress a shudder.

It takes long, tense moments until he manages to work his voice.

“I … I….”

And then suddenly Dwalin steps forward. “He’s waking,” he announces and they all fall silent. Bilbo’s lashes flutter, and then his eyes open rather abruptly.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf says, kneeling down next to the hobbit’s bed. Bilbo blinks, obviously trying to find his bearings – he hasn’t glanced past Gandalf yet, and the dwarves are silent. Then Bilbo makes to lift his head. Balin reacts at once, pushing Thorin back so he won’t be seen.

“Bilbo, how are you feeling?” asks Gandalf and draws Bilbo’s attention back to himself.

The hobbit looks pale, and it takes a painfully long time until he replies. “I… thirsty.”

As soft as his voice is, it is hoarse. From screaming, as the dwarves can imagine, even though they never heard it.

Dwalin is the one to procure a waterskin. However, when he holds it out, Bilbo’s eyes widen abruptly, and he freezes for a second. The next, he’s trying to scramble backwards and away from the large dwarf, eyes unseeing, and Thorin feels as if his heart is being torn into pieces.

Bilbo tries to say something, but only choked sounds fall from his lips. He struggles, even as Dwalin takes a slow step backward and Gandalf rests a hand on Bilbo’s arm, muttering calming words under his breath. Neither Balin nor Thorin dares to breathe, lest they draw Bilbo’s attention.

Eventually Gandalf coaxed Bilbo to relax and some water down his throat. The hobbit’s hands tremble too much to hold the waterskin himself, but his eyes clear after.

“Gandalf,” he says, in a soft, hoarse voice.

“My dear Bilbo,” the wizard utters and makes to draw the hobbit in a hug. Bilbo, however stiffens, and Gandalf stops himself. “I’m glad to see you with us,” he says instead.

The nod Bilbo gives in response is shaky. “How long…” he mumbles. And while the question may refer to the time he spent unconscious, Thorin knows it may extend to the time he spent locked in the chest. There can’t have been a way to tell time in there, and Thorin knows how darkness can stretch minutes into hours.

“Not that long,” Gandalf answers, managing to sound reassuring.

“The battle?” Bilbo asks, without tearing his gaze from the wizard.

“Was fought and ended last night,” says Gandalf. And after a moment adds. “We won.”

There’s no joy in his words, much like Thorin’s heart feels bereft now. He may have won the battle, but in the end his actions cost him everything he fought for. Now, there’s a mount of gold awaiting, but no cheerful smiles. And he knows, once what he did to Bilbo becomes public knowledge he will have no friends but sycophants.

Bilbo sighs, sounding relieved, and Gandalf relaxes a little, too. “You can rest, Bilbo. It’s all alright.”

Whether the hobbit believes him or not, the ordeal has left him too exhausted to protest, and within moments he is asleep, again.

***

Sleep does not come that night, and Thorin’s conscience steers his feet. He finds himself back in the spacious tent, and Bilbo is peacefully asleep this time. Exhaustion is still plain on the hobbit’s features, but the terror has lessened. His breathing is quiet and regular, none of the harsh stutters from before.

Remarkable indeed, Thorin thinks, and wonders if all hobbits are this resilient.

However, his thoughts inevitably turn dark. In the light of Bilbo’s courage and kindness his own actions appear all the more despicable. From the very moment he set foot into the hobbit’s own home, he offered scorn and disdain. Mocking in repayment for hospitality, and disdain for Bilbo’s courage.

And even though he promised to himself not to overlook Bilbo’s courage again after that fateful encounter with Azog, the gold made him do exactly that. As well as far, far worse things.

He still can’t believe he let his heart grow so dark and twisted; that his family’s heritage should prove his downfall, rather than his triumph. Even victorious, the treasures of Erebor now hold little joy.  Not when he is surrounded by carnage that bought his home.

Thorin doesn’t even notice when tears begin to run down his face.

***

Bilbo awakes to the sound of soft, choked breathing. He’s warm and comfortable, and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. There’s shadow lingering in his heart he can’t immediately place, and only when he opens his eyes and notes the soft glow of candlelight brightening the tent the pieces come together.

For a moment, his own breath catches. He remembers blinding fear, suffocating darkness, loneliness and despair. Even now, the memory makes him shiver, and though he has far too many questions, all his overtaxed brain can focus on is the fact that it is over.

It is finally over. He is out of that dark, humid box, and he’s alive and Gandalf was there, and it makes the abandonment hurt a little less, now. It feels as if he’s afloat in unknown waters, and all that he can cling on is Gandalf’s promise that things are alright.

That it is over.

That he won’t be cast back into that box again.

His heart quivers at the thought alone – he would not survive a second time.  Even now his mind seems to be balanced on the edge, as if it may yet burst into shambles. Shatter into something he will never recover from (and if the darkness is what awaits him, he would not mind).

Then he hears that odd noise again, and really, anything to escape the mad spiral that is his own head. He turns a little, and his eyes make out the huge, hunched-over shape of a dwarf, sitting on a low stool next to the canvas. Silver beads gleam in the light, and Bilbo recognizes Thorin.

His heart stutters, and cold sweat breaks out across his bed. Nervously his fingers clench in the thick blanket, but Thorin doesn’t react. Indeed, the dwarf doesn’t even seem to notice Bilbo’s presence.

The hobbit barely dares to breathe as he keeps his eyes fixed on the King. His mind races – flee or hide, it tells him, danger, his mind warns and the memory of the dark almost makes him shut down. However, Thorin stays still, and the sense of acute danger recedes a little.

Bilbo risks a shaky breath, and Thorin doesn’t move.

The dwarf has his face buried in his hands, and only irregularly some odd sound escapes. Bilbo can’t place this – he hasn’t seen Thorin like this before, and while a part of him is terrified, another part is even more desperate to try and ignore what happened.

It takes the glitter of something wet dripping from Thorin’s chin for Bilbo to realize that Thorin is crying, and he can’t stop the surprised noise escaping his lips.

Thorin’s head shoots up, and red-rimmed eyes stare at Bilbo. The hobbit freezes, breathless.

“Master Bag …” Thorin begins, and something in Bilbo’s chest gives a violent lurch.

“No,” he gasps, “No. Don’t. No.”

Thorin spreads his hands in an awkward attempt to be pacifying, but Bilbo only notices him leaning forward, as if to rise, and his blood runs cold. His mind goes blank -  there’s memories of hands around his throat, his upper arm, pulling, shoving and pushing him down – and he can’t breathe.

“Please, I don’t mean to do ….”

Whatever else Thorin says is unheard, because Bilbo barely hears anything but the frantic pounding of his own heart. His lungs won’t fill with air, he is dizzy and his vision is darkening (and he doesn’t want it to grow dark, it’s been dark for far too long).

Dimly he hears Thorin shout for Oin, a healer, anyone, pounding footsteps…

And then he knows no more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the response. I realize I'm quite horrible at replying to reviews concurrently, so feel free to prodd me if you want a response. *cough*
> 
> Also, RS suggested an alternate ending to chapter 1. The really dark part, where some years later Bilbo's remains are discovered. (... I think I want to write it.)
> 
> Enough rambling//

Gandalf enters on the healer’s heels, as near to a panic as Thorin has ever seen the wizard. He doesn’t even so much as look at the King, but step up straight next to the healer and rest a hand over Bilbo’s forehead.

Thorin stands at the back of the tent, watching them fuss, and feels useless. His heart is pounding, though, and his hands are sweaty. It’s luck the healer and Gandalf ask for no assistance – Thorin’s finger tremble, and he can’t tell whether it’s from fright or tension.

Between the healer and Gandalf, Bilbo’s breathing calms fast. Instead of the shallow, stuttering breaths that made Thorin’s heart clench, the hobbit now breathes slower. He remains unconscious (perhaps, again, for the better), and his breathing is not yet the slow, deep movement it ought to be in a restful sleep.

“I can do no more,” the healer – an unfamiliar dwarf, a member of Dain’s host – declares. Gandalf nods with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion is written plainly across his face.

“I can manage from here on,” he answers, “There will be others, outside, who may need your help.”

It’s an order, one the healer recognizes, yet his eyes turn to Thorin. Who swallows, before giving an imperceptible nod.  The healer than takes his leave and Thorin realizes he could not read the dwarf’s expression at all.

He is King, and the dwarves will treat him as such. Even a healer who has to at least be able to guess at the extent of Thorin’s involvement in Bilbo’s condition. It is an ill star over his reign so early on.

“Thorin,” Gandalf’s voice draws him from his thoughts. The wizard’s voice is flat, cold, “This may be your tent, but your company will not aid Bilbo’s recovery. I’d suggest you either remove yourself, or I shall see that Bilbo is given more adequate lodgings.”

Only years of experience keep Thorin from flinching.  “He can stay,” he replies, and his voice is dull, “And I will remove myself. I only …”

He trails off – something that doesn’t usually happen to him anymore. But the situation is over his head, and he has so many different things running through his head, he can’t quite tell what it is he really wants to say.

“I … would like to apologize,” he eventually says.

His words seem to mollify Gandalf, but it is a momentary reprieve. Within moments, the wizard’s features have hardened again. “And while that is certainly owed, you cannot expect Bilbo to be ready for it the moment he opens his eyes, Thorin Oakenshield. You can’t demand of him to accommodate your desires in this – not if you really want to apologize, and aren’t merely feeling obliged.”

Inside, Thorin shudders under the wizard’s penetrating glare. It doesn’t show – only his fatigue does. “Not an obligation. Never that,” he vows, “The dragon-sickness may have been upon me, yet my actions remain my responsibility.”

The words are right. Gandalf’s frown remains, however, he does not lash out. “In that case you will have to accommodate Bilbo. Wait until he is ready to face you again.”

What remains unsaid – though they both know this – is that Bilbo may never be ready. Thorin’s actions have caused great damage, and it is unknown whether Bilbo will ever fully heal.

***

After exiting his own tent, Thorin’s weary feet carry him to that of his nephews’. It’s in the early hours of the morning now – there’s no hint of sunrise yet, but the moon is sinking toward the horizon. Oil lamps have been lit in the tent of his nephews, and a number of clothes, bowls and assorted tools speak of frequent visits by the healers.

Now, however, all is quiet.

Both Fili and Kili slumber, and Thorin takes care to be silent as he steps closer.

Fili is pale, white from blood loss. A goblin blade almost severed his leg, though the healers promised him his nephew will walk again. They are not that certain whether his writing hand will recover – crushed as it had been sometime before Fili’s unconscious body had been found.

Kili’s color, on the cot next to his brother, is better, yet a thick bandage has been wrapped around his head. Its white color did survive the night, much different from yesterday when the healers had commented on unusually heavy bleeding, even for a head wound.

Thorin only remembers blood and screams. He has a very faint recollection of Kili firing arrows will Fili stayed at his back, cutting down enemies left and right. At some point, something must have gone terribly wrong for both of them to lie here now. But Thorin can only recall fragments, and this stems from more than just the rush of battle.

There are gaping holes in his memory that he only now becomes aware of. Hours, he thinks he may spent staring at gold – though now he wonders how that can be true. In the end, he spends the reminder of the night sitting vigilant over his resting nephews. They are strong, and will recover. They both will make good Kings.

Thorin leaves, once Fili begins to stir, and his heart is no lighter.

***

Balin may not want to see him, but Thorin is King, and at least for his position Balin may yet speak to him. The dwarf is not particularly surprised to find Thorin in his tent as the sun begins to rise, and says nothing about the large shadows under the King’s eyes.

Sympathy wars with disdain – Balin sees the grief in Thorin’s eyes, but the memory of Bilbo’s motionless body is much too fresh – so he straightens up, and greets his King without the familiar smile.

“Balin,” Thorin sighs. The white-haired dwarf remains silent, and waits for Thorin to speak his mind. It takes the King several moments to collect himself.

“I … know I have not been myself, lately,” Thorin says.

Balin suppresses a snort at this understatement. Thorin does not meet his eyes, and continues. “And I have done a number of unforgiveable deeds. I would have your honest advice, if you will give it –“

He takes a deep breath.

“Do you think me fit to rule?”

The question catches Balin by surprise. He may have had his own doubts, yet he has never expected Thorin to pose this question. Kings of Erebor ruled to their death – unless sickness of weakness of the mind brought on by age forced them to abdicate. Thorin, even caught in the throes of dragon-sickness, is neither.

The King slumps on a stool, and buries his face in his hands. In a soft voice he adds: “Only now I see how foolish I was. The dragon-sickness almost lost Erebor again, almost made me sacrifice my friends and kin – and now I wonder whether I can ever trust myself again. If not future decisions may bring on the tragedy we so narrowly escaped this time. If I will succumb to the dragon-sickness once again.”

Balin listens, but keeps his face expressionless. His mind is whirling. Thorin is not watching him – he stares at the ground; his entire posture defeated. “If it was just me, it wouldn’t matter. But already, my actions have endangered all of us. And now, they endanger the entirety of Erebor. “

Tiredly he brushes some loose strands of hair back. “I do not know what to do anymore. If not for me, then for the sake of the other members of this company  - for the sake of Erebor, help me.”

Balin swallows. “What are you speaking of?” he queries. Suggesting abdication to a king has cost other advisors their head – and regardless of their friendship, he has seen what Thorin did to Bilbo.

Thorin’s shoulder slump forward, although he lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed when they meet Balin’s. “Fili may be young, but the dragon-sickness did not touch him. Perhaps he should be crowned king. Tell me, Balin, please tell me what to do.”

There is only one answer to this question, even though it is not one that makes Balin happy. He does not wish the crown on Fili for he has seen many rulers struggle under its weight. And crowns have broken many characters (though Balin doubts Fili will crumble. No, he rather fears that the crown will extinguish that playful light in Fili’s eyes).

“No,” he says eventually – and he wishes he could say this was for the sake of protecting Fili’s spirit or mending Thorin’s heart, but it is sorely for political reasons – “You have to rule. Fili is not only young, but he is your sister’s son – don’t you think Dain, or at least his advisors, will do their very best to discredit his claim. And you know what they think of the dragon-sickness in the Ered Luin. Elves and men do not know much it, but to them it is equal to madness. They will not accept your decision to nominate Fili.”

Thorin blinks. None of the information is new, but unlike Balin he has not yet puzzled them together. And the rest of the picture falls into place and Thorin pales. “But then they won’t accept my claim either.”

“It is much harder to doubt the word of a king than the word of the king’s nephew,” Balin says flatly, “However, it may be for the best not to reveal too much to them.”

Hide the dragon-sickness and what it brought on. Play it all as a political conflict – Thorin can see it work, and hates it already. His first act as a King then will be to force his company – the twelve dwarves closest to him – to lie for the sake of consolidating his power.  And Bilbo will never see justice for what was done to him.

“How long?” he asks.

Balin shrugs. “Who knows. But it will take a decade at least for Erebor to regain stability.”

Ten years of ruling on such a dark secret. It is an ill omen, but Thorin sees no way out. If his own death could change things, he would not hesitate, yet Balin is right – if he vanishes, the throne will not go to Fili.

And as much as he still dares to cling onto his own wishes, he wants to see his sister-sons rule.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo wakes up and tries to regain his bearings. Kili and Dwalin offer comfort, Gandalf hints at a political plot brewing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fairly long and has a surprising lot of comforting. And I couldn't help that massage scene - even if writing one makes me want to go and get one myself). Fairly harmless chapter ahead.

When Bilbo wakes up, his head feels clearer. His limbs remain weak, but the ever-present panic in the back of his head has receded. Its shadow lingers – though now, he can start thinking again. Last night is a blurry memory of sensations and feelings and the rapid beating of his heart – even the slightest movement had sent his brain into overdrive, then.

It’s alright, for now, as long as he consciously does not think about it.

This morning – and he thinks it is morning, he doesn’t quite know – he can catalogue the sounds he hears and glance around at his surprisingly luxurious quarters. The canvas of the tent may be off-white, but is mostly hidden behind a selection of tapestries that helps keeping the wind out and the interior warm. Bilbo recognizes the patterns – he has seen those inside Erebor before.

There are a number of stools arranged around his bed, and a chest next to it. On it sits a chalice filled with clear water and a small bowl with fruits. Hunger is far from his mind – his stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch at the thought of food – but throat is dry. His fingers shake as he reaches out, and after he has stilled his thirst, he is exhausted again.

While Bilbo is busy catching his breath, somebody enters the tent. Bilbo whips his head around so fast his muscles twinge with pain. His body is frozen stiff, even when he recognizes Gandalf.

The wizard looks surprised to find him awake. Then a smile spreads on his face.

“Bilbo,” he hurries over, “How are you?”

Gandalf carefully watches the hobbit, looking for any indicators of acute pain. Bilbo has some trouble relaxing his muscles again, but eventually he manages.

“Better I suppose,” he replies.

Gandalf nods, and sits on a stool with obvious relief. “Resources are spare now, but please ask if you need anything. I’m afraid between myself and the healers we did all we could – which wasn’t much, to be honest, so I’m very glad to see you up right now.”

Bilbo nods, and grows increasingly aware of just how stiff his back is. Unsurprising, considering – he cuts the thought of before the memory can rise up.

“How are the others?” Bilbo asks, “I think somebody said we won, but I haven’t seen all of them.”

“I don’t doubt they’ll be around sooner rather than later,” the wizard says, “They’re all alive, some a bit worse for wear than others. Fili and Kili are in the tent next to you, and I think I heard them terrorizing the healers earlier today. Bofur asked for you, and he’ll probably stop by later tonight – he went with a party to scout out the state of the living quarters inside the mountain.”

“So they’re all well?” Bilbo straightens instinctively, as an unfamiliar emotion tugs at his heart.

Gandalf smiles. “They are. Though I think Gloin lost the tip of his ear, if I heard correctly.”

The sensation that blossoms in Bilbo’s chest is relief. A smile begins to form on his face, and somehow it feels as if he never smiled before. It’s a glorious moment – for now, the dark memories are banished and with them all alive there’s a future to hope for.

“They will be glad to hear you’re up, too,” Gandalf adds lightly, “They were all rather concerned.”

The words gladden Bilbo. Then doubt gnaws its way to the forefront of his mind – all of them, truly?  Even the one who … (and Bilbo knows, that even though he remembers an attempted apology the night before, he cannot think the name or of what was done – not now, not when the darkness is so fresh and all too ready to swallow him should he let himself fall apart).

“Anyhow, I was …” Whatever Gandalf is about to say is lost, as somebody enters the tent.

Bilbo freezes, and it is Kili who wanders in.  His head is bandaged and his movements are a little stiff, though altogether he looks rather well put-together.

“Gandalf,” Kili starts, and then catches sight of Bilbo.

“Bilbo!” he exclaims cheerfully, and lunges forward. Only Gandalf’s extended staff stops him from wrapping his arms around Bilbo. Kili stumbles backwards, coughing, and Bilbo dares to breathe again. Fine tremors run through his hands, his heart is racing and there’s a fine layer of sweat covering his forehead all of a sudden.

He doesn’t quite know why – but Kili with his arms wide open has suddenly become frightening.

Kili sees the hobbit’s  wide eyes, and his joy dims a little. He steps back, and sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. “Ah, sorry about that.”

Bilbo is too busy getting his breath back, so Gandalf turns to the dwarf. “You were looking for me?”

“Oh, yes,” says Kili and takes his eyes away from Bilbo, “Balin said to fetch you. They’re negotiating with Bard and Thranduil, and it’s not going too well from what I heard, so Balin said to get you. Maybe you can help. I mean, it’s all a bit difficult, right now, with Dain, and all his generals and everybody has their own opinion. You probably know, but Balin thought you could help out perhaps.”

Gandalf frowns. “Is it truly necessary?”

Kili grimaces. “From what I know they’re negotiating supply routes. The rest isn’t important, but with winter so close….”

Bilbo can see how this would be important, so he doesn’t know why Gandalf hesitates. The wizard then turns to him. “Would it be acceptable to you if I left for an hour or two?”

“Of course,” Bilbo replies instantly – and feels confused. Why does Gandalf ask him this? He’s not – well, he’s not well, but he won’t fall apart the moment Gandalf leaves. At least, he thinks so. (And he hates the uncertainty that overshadows each and every thought).

“Very well,” says Gandalf and rises.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep Bilbo company. And Dwalin is guarding the entrance – he almost wouldn’t have let me pass,” Kili proclaims while Gandalf puts his hat back on.

“See that you do that,” Gandalf says over his shoulder, “But see that you don’t do too much, either.”

“I will!” Kili calls after Gandalf. Then the wizard is gone, and the young prince turns his attention back on the hobbit. Thankfully, this time his approach is moderated. Instead of throwing his arms around the hobbit, he sits down on the stool Gandalf has vacated.

“So,” he starts, “Uncle really put his foot into it, this time, didn’t he?”

Bilbo feels how the blood drains from his face. Kili backtracks at once  - “Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t have said. Balin said to be careful, but nobody’s telling me anything, and uncle won’t even look me in the eye, so I guess he really … well, I mean, I saw him before battle, but …  you know what, just forget I said anything.”

Bilbo is dizzy. He fights it the best he can – he’s blacked out too much, and he doesn’t want it to happen again, so he forces his lips to move. “I… I’d rather not … talk of it.”

“Ah, sure,” Kili agrees easily, “But you’ll tell me if I can do anything to help? Let me know if you want me to fetch you some food or drink? Or maybe your writing materials? Dori kept your things, and the battle didn’t touch anything inside the mountain, so it’ll all be still there.”

Thinking of the interior of the mountain immediately summons related memories. The treasury. The – Bilbo bites down on his lip. He’s trembling now, and Kili’s face falls.

“I, I’m sorry. Really,” he says, sounding contrite and mature (when Bilbo would rather see him cheerful, for all he unintentionally brings up bad memories, Kili’s light-hearted nature is soothing), “I really wish I could have done something. Or could do something. You’ll let me know if I can, will you? I wish I could just take this all away.”

He gestures widely, and Bilbo understands he means to encompass the entirety of the battle. In his heart, he wishes for the same as Kili does – for this to be past, bygone and over. He doesn’t want to jump at noises and movements, not when his heart already feels so strained.

He just wants to feel normal again.

The silence stretches just a moment too long to be comfortable. Bilbo can’t summon his conversational self, and Kili is afraid of putting his foot into his mouth, again. But somehow he can’t quite think of a topic not related to the events of the last few days.

“I heard you dislocated your shoulder,” Kili says eventually, “I’m by no means a healer, but would you mind if I took a look at it? Balin said it might…”

“Go ahead,” Bilbo offers, even though he doesn’t know whether he’s ready for it.

Kili then leans forward and gently peels back the collar of Bilbo’s shirt. The hobbit stiffens immediately, because even the softest touch to the bruised skin of his back sends spikes of pain through his body. With a conscious effort, he forces himself to exhale.

“Your head wound?” he inquires, while Kili’s fingers dance across his skin.

“Healing,” Kili replies absently, “Your muscles are stiff – that must be quite painful.”

Bilbo doesn’t reply, because that’s the truth and he isn’t up to insisting he’s fine – even if the pain in his back seems a minor discomfort compared to what lurks in the abyss of his mind.

“You know, Dwalin is quite good at working out those knots,” Kili says and leans back, “I’m certain he’d be glad to do that for you.”

When Bilbo remains hesitant, he adds: “It’s really relaxing – he did it all the time when he taught Fili and me how to handle our weapons.  He just knows where to put his fingers, how much force to apply – and moments later you’ll be feeling as soft as pudding. You ought to try.”

The offer sounds tempting, though for some reason a part of him is afraid of Dwalin. It’s all complex, and very irrational, to a point that Bilbo is fed up at himself. So he nods, before he can change  his mind.

Kili smiles brightly, and then proceeds to call the dwarf in. While Bilbo steels his nerves, Kili explains to Dwalin how he ought to give him one of those “amazing muscle treatments” and promises to stand guard outside in the meantime.

Bilbo wonders just what he got himself into.

And once he enters, Dwalin appears just as uncertain as Bilbo feels.

“Are you alright with this?” he asks, and his expression tells Bilbo that he’d more than understand it. That Dwalin is familiar with Kili’s enthusiasm, but also familiar with the havoc injury and experience can wreck on a mind.

Even if his fingers are trembling, Bilbo has had enough of feeling delicate. He’s pulled himself together before and survived, and he’s certain there’re soldiers out there in far worse conditions. Unlike many, Bilbo is neither dying nor in blinding pain – and perhaps, once his back stops aching, he can get up and try to make himself useful (rather than rest and allow his mind to wander).

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Bilbo replies and forces a chuckle, “Kili said you were some kind of miracle-worker.”

Dwalin snorts at that. “Did he?”

Then he finally approaches Bilbo’s bedside, and his sheer size suddenly feels intimidating. Bilbo takes a deep breath and forces himself to remain calm.

“Turn on your stomach,” Dwalin orders, and begins flexing his fingers, “Tell me to stop when it hurts or you start feeling uncomfortable.”

Bilbo’s heart is pounding as he obeys. Dwalin has never harmed him, yet he’s afraid to turn his back to him all of a sudden. He firmly tells himself that Dwalin won’t hurt him, swallows, and arranges his pillow until he has found a comfortable position.

“I’ll start at your shoulders. Tell me if I press too hard on a bruise,” Dwalin says, and Bilbo feels the tips of his fingers settle in the junction of his neck and shoulders. The touch remains light – the dwarf traces the outline of Bilbo’s shoulder blades, applying soft pressure on the muscles there.

It’s not uncomfortable, even though Bilbo can’t quite help flinching the first three times. The thin shirt is a blessing in disguise – he isn’t certain whether his nerves would be up to skin on skin contact.

The touch stops half-way down his back, before the fingers gently settle against his left shoulder. The joint is still swollen, and aches at every move Bilbo makes, though for some reason Dwalin’s touch is barely more than a tickle. And then it’s already gone, and Dwalin lightly palpitates his right shoulder.

Dwalin mutters something under his breath (he’s not swearing, Bilbo think, at least his intonation doesn’t suggest it), and then returns his hands to their initial position. This time he uses the balls of his hands to rub small circles along Bilbo’s spine.

The hobbit can feel his muscles shift under the gentle pressure. And while there remains a knot of fear coiled in the depth of his stomach, it’s small enough to allow his body to relax. Dwalin’s hands remain gentle and his touch is always mindful of the bruises and abrasions on Bilbo’s back. There’s no hurry in his movements and he keeps rubbing a number of spots along his spine, increasing the pressure until Bilbo’s back is arched.

He even manages to coax the muscles around Bilbo’s injured shoulder to relax – the hobbit can almost feel the pain drain out. And when at one point his spine gives a loud crack, it’s as if his bones have been realigned in a way that is finally comfortable.

“That’s all I can do for now,” Dwalin announces an indefinite amount of time later.

Bilbo blinks. He hasn’t dozed off, but for the first time in what seems to be forever, he feels warm and safe. Even the nightmarish memories lurking behind his eyelids appear to have vanished for now.

“T’s nice,” he mumbles, and it makes the tall dwarf chuckle. Bilbo thinks Kili should have told him sooner – this kind of treatment should be a regular occurrence, really. Now though, he should probably get up.

Though when he moves, Dwalin softly presses him back into the mattress (and it is testament to Dwalin’s skills that the touch doesn’t send Bilbo into a panic) and says: “No, just stay here and sleep a little longer, Master Baggins.”

And Bilbo closes his eyes.

***

When he wakes up, Gandalf is at his side again. Night has fallen, since the oil lamps have been lit – the wizard stares thoughtfully into nothing. He’s distracted by Bilbo shifting on the bed.

“How are you?” the wizard inquires. Apparently he likes what he sees, and Bilbo has to admit, he can’t recall ever feeling so relaxed.

“Quite fine, actually,” he replies.  His sleep has been thankfully free of nightmares and he’s warm, but the more he awakens, the closer those dark memories draw again. He’ll have to sort them out, he realizes – but not now, not when he feels fine and doesn’t have to worry about a thing.

Gandalf smiles.

“How was the meeting?” Bilbo asks, before the silence can stretch, “Earlier today, I believe? The meeting with Bard and Thranduil?”

The wizard snorts. “It went rather better than expected, but that isn’t saying much. Th – Laketown will be recompensed for the damages caused, and the elves will receive a small sum for their help in battle. But a number of issues that remain unresolved.”

Both ignore how Gandalf avoids mentioning Thorin’s name or the Arkenstone. There’s a seed of curiosity somewhere in Bilbo, but he dreads what discussing either of these subjects will inevitably entail, so he skips it.

“I heard there was something about the supplies?” he asks.

“Trust a hobbit to ask about the food first,” says Gandalf, and Bilbo grins, “Well, a joint group for Erebor and Laketown will set out and see whether the plain around the mountain are fertile. The elves have offered to provide seeds. Laketown has enough stores to get through the winter, and Dain will provide for Erebor. Though that’ll only cover a very basic fare, so they were thinking if they could use the river to buy further produce from the south.”

Bilbo nods, with a sense of relief. “That sounds good.”

“Yes, but well, it isn’t easy,” replies Gandalf, “Thranduil is asking a rather steep price for seeds, Bard still faces some internal opposition from those loyal to Laketown’s former Master. And Dain will not only leave grain and supplies, but also a number of his soldiers and generals.”

Gandalf’s expression is dark.  Bilbo can’t help but tense – and where the respectable Mr. Baggins would have laughed at the idea of a political plot in the making, the hobbit he is now is wary at how easy it would be for Dain to just march in.

He has never met the other dwarf, only heard of him. Most tales positive, but he still remembers the words “he won’t come” spoken in his dining room.  It makes Bilbo feel rather uneasy.

“Does he…” Bilbo trails off, realizing he doesn’t quite know how to phrase his concerns.

Gandalf sighs. “I don’t know. Dain himself seems not ambitious as his advisors and generals – but I have to admit, I do not know him very well. I suppose we shall wait and see.”

He straightens up. “Anyhow, a number of people – Thranduil and Bard among them – asked after you. I believe at least Bard was quite worried, too.”

Warmth blossoms in Bilbo’s chest. It’s nice to know he hasn’t been forgotten amid the chaos, and he smiles at Gandalf. “If they ask again, give them my regards and tell them I’d like to see them, too, once I’m up.”

“I shall see it done,” Gandalf promises with a fond chuckle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far, and there is little to be said but enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: Angst and political intrigue.

In the tent next to Bilbo, Kili has just returned from a last walk around the camp. Standing guard at Bilbo’s tent threw off his schedule, but he does not regret is. However, he has to force a smile when Fili expectantly asks him for news, complaining how his ankle is keeping him tethered.

“Everyone’s fine,” Kili tells him, even though he knows his brother can see through him, “Gloin was rather worried how his wife will take to him missing a bit of his ear, though I doubt she’ll do any of the horrible things to him he came up with.”

He prattles on about little tidbits – how Dain’s soldiers seem quite stiff, relations with Bard’s men have suddenly improved, and the elves make good healers, though it’s probably a good thing that Thranduil remains out of sight. Erebor’s gates have been sealed again, and even Kili isn’t certain who has the key – he thinks it’s either Thorin or Balin, but he won’t but it past them to leave the key with somebody else altogether.

“Thorin?” Fili asks, interrupting Kili’s tale, “How is our uncle?”

There’s anxiety in his eyes. Even scooped up in his tent Fili has heard that something ill has befallen Bilbo, and that Thorin seems to be responsible. And he, too, saw what happened on the gates.

Kili bites his lip. “As well as can be.”

Fili snorts. “That’s not very precise, dearest brother.”

“He’s not bleeding to death?” Kili suggests, “Nor grievously harmed in any way that keeps him off his feet?”

They’re both very aware that anything that would keep Thorin of his feet has to be a dreadful injury, if not a fatal one. The answer then doesn’t really tell Fili much, so Kili sighs and lets his shoulders slump.

“He’s, well, trying?” Kili frowns unhappily, “And very, very sad. I don’t know what exactly happened, but it must have been bad. Balin looked just so angry, and Dwalin… I’ve never seen him like this, either. I mean, he didn’t say anything, but he’s taken to guarding Bilbo, and he almost didn’t let me in. I’m not sure, but I think he’s guarding it against uncle.”

Fili blinks. “But --- well, I think, wasn’t uncle under the dragon-sickness? I thought he was over it?”

“He is,” replies Kili, “At least it looks like it.”

“But why would they not let him to Bilbo then? I’m certain he’d only want to make amends,” says Fili, his eyes wide.

Kili swallows. “I don’t know, but, you know, Bilbo seemed really unwell. Not injured, but pale and really, really jumpy. I sort of wanted to hug him, and I think he almost fainted, then. He couldn’t tell me what happened either, and well… it’s all just a huge mess.”

At this he slumps down completely on his brother’s bed, burying his face in the crook of Fili’s neck. The blond dwarf chuckles lightly at the familiar gesture and pets Kili’s head.

“It may be a mess, but remember what mother used to say – as long as you’re alive, you can attempt to clean it up,” he quotes. The words had been applied to life-altering situations as well as the more menial tasks as tidying rooms, and Fili hopes they’ll ring true here as well.

He may not be very old, but he has heard tales that sometimes people don’t recover from injuries.

For now, however, the words lend them additional warmth.

Fili doesn’t know how long they stay like this. He may have dozed off at one point, and Kili’s breathing has evened out. His little brother is a dead weight against his chest, and while his ribs ache, it’s a reminder that he’s alive. Fili doesn’t like to linger on his memories of the battle – he recalls the sheer hopelessness and the fear that his little brother, his uncle and all his friends will surely be dead by dawn all too clearly.

Clearly enough that is sometimes sneaks into his nightmares.

On that note, he doesn’t even know why he’s awake. It’s probably in the middle of the night, and he’s fairly certain no nightmare woke him up this time – his fingers are steady and he’s not sweat-soaked either – then he hears a rumble outside.

It’s accompanied by a shout of warning, before the noise swells to an abrupt, deafening roar. It the clatter of metal tumbling – large amounts of metal, clanging and crashing. Fili’s ears are ringing before it has stopped, and Kili twitches awake, too.

“What…?” he asks.

And then there’s a scream.

It’s high, shrill and barely human.  Coming right from the tent next to them. Fili and Kili exchange a glance; then Kili is on his feet. The clanging has stopped, the screams haven’t, and now they hear Dwalin calling for a healer, running footsteps and low curses in Khuzdul.

Kili stumbles outside, uncertain whether he’ll be anything but in the way. Gandalf brushes past him without a second glance, followed by a healer. When the tent flap is pulled back, Kili can glance inside for second.

The scene leaves him cold.

Dwalin is holding Bilbo down, but for all his strength he can’t stop the hobbit from struggling. Bilbo’s eyes are wide-open in a stark white face, unseeing and full of panic. The wet glistening tear tracks make Kili’s heart clench uncomfortably.

When the tent flap falls closed again, Kili shifts on his feet.  The screams stop, and are replaced by choked gasps that threatens to tear him apart.  He hears voices muttering, and presses his lip together.

This feeling of powerlessness is the worst. He wishes to help, but right now he wouldn’t be even able to sit next to Bilbo and hold his hand. What he saw in this short second written on the hobbit’s face was a lack of presence – proof of a mind too far gone to be comforted.

He only hopes Bilbo will pull back from this.

As he turns to join his brother again, his eyes pick up a movement from the corner of his eye. There, in the shadow near the large tent stands his uncle. Thorin’s face is pale, shadowed and unendingly grieved.

***

The few hours Thorin sleeps this night are out of necessity, not for his personal desire. Too many thoughts are haunting his mind, too many terrorizing images rest behind his eyelids, and only exhaustion eventually forces him to rest.

Morning dawns cold and without comfort. The sky is overcast when Thorin steps out, and while he wishes to grieve, to make amends, to help the wounded, politics do not wait for him to regain his equilibrium.

With a heavy heart he takes his seat in the large tent set up for council. Dain sits on his right, joined by three advisors. Balin takes up that position behind Thorin, while Bard is on his own. Thranduil is accompanied by two elves that may be advisors, may be guards – it is difficult to tell from their dress or demeanor.

“Let us begin,” Dain says once they’ve all taken their places, “I believe we stopped at the trade routes yesterday.”

It is nonsense, Thorin thinks at one point, to negotiate trade routes when both Laketown and Erebor are in shambles, and winter is bound to half all trade for the next few months at least. Still, it takes a long time for them to agree that there will be no toll on the route to Erebor will be levied jointly by Erebor and Dale (once rebuilt), as they also intend to share the cost of fortifying the road.

After that the topic returns to the remaining sore point: reparations.

“We have no intention of denying reparations for the destruction Smaug wrought on Laketown,” Balin assures Bard, “Though while you are in possession of the Arkenstone, you are nominally in no need of further financial aid.”

Bard frowns, though before he can say anything, Thranduil speaks up. “Your burglar did give the stone both to elves and men. We are entitled to a share of treasure.”

One of Dain’s advisors snorts. “The Halfling had no right to trade away the stone. Whatever he promised is of no consequence.”

“Perhaps not the stone,” Thranduil agrees with an air of indulgence, “But I have been given to understand he intended it to be traded for his share of the treasure in any case.”

“Void,” declares the advisor, “His actions voided whatever part of the treasure was contractually owed to him.”

Bard clears his throat. “And who decided this?”

“I believe you were present when his majesty –“ the advisor nods to Thorin – “explained the situation?”

Bard looks decidedly uncomfortable at the memory, and Thranduil frowns darkly. “Still, we aided you in battle. And the fury of Smaug descended onto Laketown by no fault of its inhabitants. Surely, master Fror, you see how we may wish for at least a compensation for our losses in this?”

Fror purses his lips. “Indeed, now we shall aid you, when you did not aid us back when…”

“Enough,” Dain orders, sharply. Everybody present knows that Fror is not from Erebor, has not seen the mountain prior to this, “We will not deny anybody – not when so many lives have been lost in this. Though I have to admit, the Arkenstone is an unfortunate trade, and Master Baggins’ fourteenth, too, was not a well thought-out compensation. I believe we would indeed fare better should we declare his promise void and renegotiate the terms.”

Thranduil is visibly unhappy, but Bard shrugs. “I would be willing to try this – indeed, I feel it rather unfair for Master Baggins to be denied his share himself.”

One of Dain’s advisors sputters. “You’d pay a traitor?”

Balin softly clears his throat, and instantly the room falls silent. He and Thorin have listened long enough to the others quarrel over their fortune. “Renegotiations are perfectly acceptable,” Balin stipulates, “Though first, the Arkenstone will have to be returned.”

Dain’s advisors nod fiercely, while Thranduil glowers. “And who then will guarantee we will ever receive compensation? Who will guarantee you will not shut your doors on us and leave us to fend for ourselves?”

“Hunger will, your majesty,” Balin replies, even as Dain’s advisors gape, “Erebor is rich in treasure, not in food. We have no intention to betray you.”

Bard nods in agreement, though Thranduil remains unconvinced. Then Bard leans forward. “In that case, how about we leave the stone with a third party until negotiations have been settled? I would nominate Master Baggins – I believe he has shown himself rather capable already.”

Not in the eyes of the dwarves, but Bard only smiles at the outrage of Dain’s entourage. Thorin likes the idea, even though he isn’t certain if it’ll do any good for Bilbo’s recovery. Forcing such a responsibility onto him when he’s so fragile does not seem helpful.

“Impossible,” Fror foams, “You can’t seriously be …”

“I agree with Master Bard,” Thranduil declares, “I, too, would find the hobbit a fitting choice.”

“But he’s a convicted traitor!” exclaims Fror. Dain gestures for him to stand down, before he leans forward. “I agree with your logic, though I believe Fror is right, too. As long as Master Baggins is considered a traitor, he is no suitable party to leave Erebor’s greatest treasure with.”

Thorin clears his throat. “This is of no consequence,” he declares, “While I indeed proclaimed Master Baggins a traitor, the judgment is no longer valid. Before we do, however, volunteer him for any duties, I would rather hear his opinion on this. He is not subject to either of us, and I believe it would be ill behavior to make decisions on his behalf.”

Bard is the only one happy at Thorin’s announcement.

In the end, the subject is once again, postponed. Instead, they negotiate a possible with drawl of troops from the plains. There is little food, and many soldiers to feed, but all feel uneasy, fearing to be cheated out of their share should their force grow smaller.

Which is a little ridiculous, considering Thorin has twelve dwarves with him defending Erebor. Dain stands with him before Bard and Thranduil only, and he is an uneasy bedfellow.

The moment they recess for lunch, Dain is at Thorin’s side. “You revoked your judgment, cousin?” he asks, lightly, “Or was it never valid?”

Thorin can’t help the dark frown on his features. “It should have never been valid,” he replies – it has been too long since he had to play these games of words and intonations. He had been taught well, but now, with Dain who is surrounded by courtiers every day, he feels clumsy.

Balin’s presence does not help much – he can’t ask him for help when Dain has exclusively addressed him, and they’re talking as Kings. Advisors then, no matter how good friends, have to stay out of it, as tradition demands.

“Oh, well,” continues Dain, helping himself to a small serving, “I hope it hadn’t had anything to do with dragon-sickness, or so? I mean, I remember your grandfather in the end, and well, it wasn’t nice to watch, was it? It was luck Thrain was so good at pulling the reigns from behind the throne … the sickness has taken more than one decent mind from our family, hasn’t it?”

And suddenly Thorin feels all eyes focused on him. So he forces himself to calmly chew and swallow, even though he wants to vomit.

“I do remember,” he tells Dain, “What did your father always say? The mind of a dragon is not a mind of a ruler.”

Usually this had been accompanied by a suggestion to combine the Kingdom of Erebor with Ered Luin – and had become rather ironic, eventually, as Dain’s father had eventually lost his mind completely to the dragon-sickness.

Indeed, the memory leaves Dain uncomfortable. “You’d think Thranduil caught it, the way he’s trying to make sure he gets his share.

“Though not surprising. Erebor’s treasure has inspired many demands,” Thorin replies. Behind Dain, his advisors shift uneasily.

“Though apparently not in halflings,” Dain returns, “Humor me, cousin, did the alfling really manage to steal the Arkenstone? I have to admit, I’m not certain whether to be surprised or amazed at his daring.”

“He did,” he tells Dain and forces a smile, “But then, he managed to steal from Smaug before, so his skills are sufficient.”

Dain waggles his eyebrows, and it brings out a sharp pain in Thorin’s chest. He remembers a time when both Dain and he were young, and political ambition meant nothing. Dain used to move his eyebrows just like this back then.

It’s another thing sacrificed for treasure.

“Amazing indeed. I only saw him shortly the other night when Dwalin brought him back – he didn’t look like much,” says Dain.

Thorin manages to keep his impression smooth. “I thought the same for a long while throughout our journey.”

He never noticed Dain among the onlookers, and it makes him uneasy. Bilbo is currently Dain’s best chance at proving Thorin’s onset of dragon-sickness, and thereby strengthening his own claim to Erebor’s throne. He wonders how much more Dain has seen and heard, and how far he can stretch the truth.

(Which is bitter, for just when he wishes to make amends, he has to lie, else the damage caused to everyone else would be far too great).

“A pity he seemed so unwell. I would have liked to speak to him,” Dain says.

Thorin sighs. “Battlefields are no place for hobbits,” and that is true, even if the battle is not what has harmed Bilbo so.

“That is true,” Dain agrees easily, “And yet somehow he has won Bard’ goodwill, some sort of respect from the elven King, the friendship of a wizard and your pardon, cousin, for a very daring deed. It’s all rather remarkable, indeed.”

Thorin forces himself to remain calm – Dain is watching him closely, watching for a twitch or any sort of reaction. His words put it all too clearly, just what central a figure Bilbo has become in this. For the peace negotiations, as well as the question of the legitimacy of his line. Should Bilbo accuse him of dragon-sickness, Dain can perhaps hope to be backed by Bard and Thranduil in his own claim to power.

And Thorin would allow it – Dain is a just ruler, he knows – but he did win Erebor for his own people, not his cousin’s.

***

When Bilbo wakes he feels utterly exhausted and weary. His eyes are crusted, and his mind is bleak. He has hardly any memories of last night – only a bone-deep sensation of terror that still lingers – yet his fingers shake.

“Bilbo,” a familiar voice exclaims, and before he can stop himself, Bilbo gasps and flinches back.

Immediately, the pleased tone grows worried. “Are you quite alright?”

Bilbo hears a rustle, and he needs a moment, until the rushing in his ears fades enough that he can identify his companion – and by then he rather fed up with himself. Gandalf, though, is seated on a chair next to Bilbo’s cot, waiting patiently for the hobbit to gather himself.

“Quite fine, actually,” Bilbo replies and can’t keep the annoyance from his voice, “Or rather, I should be.”

Gandalf’s mouth quirks in a humorless smile. “Alas, that may take some time, I would think.”

Bilbo is silent, his head turning over the last few days, carefully omitting that dark period before waking in this tent. The memory feels a little less menacing than before, but Bilbo doesn’t dare to touch it, yet.

“How much longer?” Bilbo asks eventually, and finds he sounds exhausted to his own ears. He hates feeling this brittle – especially when he does nothing but rest anyway, “I mean, I…”

He trails off and Gandalf sighs. “I do not know,” the wizard admits, “Things like this … sometimes they stay with us forever, and you have to learn how to live with them.”

It sounds as if he is talking from personal experience, and it makes Bilbo wonder. Then, it also makes dread coil within Bilbo’s stomach – currently all he is looking forward to is returning to his comfortable life, his books, his pantry and his garden, and to leave this – with all associated terror and anxiety – far, far behind.

To carry it with him forever – to forever jump at loud noises, remain this terrified – Bilbo doesn’t think that would be a bearable existence.

“But then, some of us also find their way back,” Gandalf adds, and his eyes grow fond as they look upon Bilbo, “And generally, time helps a lot to heal these things.”

It’s not quite the comfort Bilbo wished for, but he tries to take courage from it.

“Thorin- “ Bilbo speaks the name without thinking, and while he freezes for a split second, the blinding rush of terror does not come. Still, he avoids the name on his second start. “He tried to apologize, didn’t he? I don’t quite remember much of it, but I …”

The apology ought to help with the healing, Bilbo thinks. Or at least, he hopes so.

Gandalf raises an eyebrow. “He did indeed, though not at an opportune moment.”

And there’s the truth to this. Bilbo doesn’t remember anything Thorin said, just that somewhere beyond the blind panic that had enveloped his mind, the King had sounded apologetic.

“Then the sickness is gone?” Bilbo asks.

“You heard of it?” Gandalf asks in return, surprised.

Bilbo shrugs. “It cropped up in a number of histories – most authors either named it gold-sickness, or dragon-sickness. Some also just plainly termed is as madness. I didn’t think much about it, but when Balin told us about Thror, it came up again. And once we got into Erebor…”

He suddenly finds he has to steady his breathing, and his voice still sounds oddly choked. “… once we got inside, everybody just started acting so strangely.”

Unconsciously, his entire body has tensioned, and Bilbo can’t bring himself to look at Gandalf. He doesn’t know why this memory leaves his so unsteady – the glittering mountains of treasure, the crowd of happy dwarves digging through their reclaimed riches – it should be a good memory, really. Instead, Bilbo’s fingers tremble.

Gandalf leans forward, about to put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, but thinks better of it at the last moment. “My dear Bilbo,” he says, “You do really astonish me at every turn.”

Again, the words are only a small comfort.

“I just thought everybody was happy,” Bilbo confesses, sounding small, “That they were happy to have back their kingdom.”

“And they probably were,” Gandalf adds. He casts a contemplative glance at Bilbo, as if trying to gauge the hobbit’s composure – and finds what he is looking for, if just barely. “The dragon-sickness can be difficult to determine – at times it is greed behind it, at others merely joy, as you have observed. Only time and observation allow for a sound judgment – yet to give it time also allows the sickness to consume its victims further.”

“But they can come back?” Bilbo inquires.

Gandalf sighs. “The longer the sickness lasts, the more difficult it becomes. And often, once the mind has cleared, desperation at their own deeds will take those that recovered.”

And while Bilbo wants to ask after the King, somehow he can’t move his tongue. Instead, he compromises. “And everyone is … is out of it?”

Gandalf senses the true question behind it. “They all are – if they were under it, initially. Some may have indeed been only overjoyed – gold and gems do call to dwarves in the manner food appeals to hobbits. Though I believe they are all rather appalled at how they treated you, and quite eager to make amends.”

Bilbo musters a small smile – the magic Dwalin worked on his muscles last night is a fond memory, even if the panic during the night returned the tension to his body. But he doesn’t want amends – he just wants for things to go back to the way before it all went so horribly wrong.

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics have a way of messing things up, no matter how good intentions are. And Kili makes a rather unfortunate discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everybody very much for leaving reviews and/or kudos! You guys are making this particularly rainy month a lot of brighter. ^__^

As the small council concludes in the early afternoon – once again, barely any progress has been made – Balin leaves with a deep-sated sense of unease. They can’t continue stalling much longer, and while he and Thorin can do little more than play Dain (or rather, Dain’s advisors. Balin still isn’t too certain of Dain’s mind in this) against Thranduil and Bard.

It’s an uneasy balance and it won’t last.

Bard’s suggestion of excluding the Arkenstone from the squabbling has a lot of merit, even if Balin believes it unwise to charge Bilbo with it. Not from a political perspective – seen from there, it’s a clever move – but from a personal one. The hobbit isn’t well, and burdening him with this particular object will not aid him either.

Still, his feet carry him to the tent housing Bilbo.

The hobbit is going over a letter with Gandalf, and seeing them both look this calm soothes Balin’s mind a little. He hates bringing the news he has – and that Bilbo flinches at his entry – but pushes forward, nevertheless.

“Master Gandalf, Master Baggins,” he greets, politely, “Forgive me, if I skip the formalities – I’m afraid, I have a rather large request to make of our burglar.”

Gandalf’s face darkens, but Balin forces himself to watch Bilbo. He prays he won’t find terror, for he doesn’t think he’ll be able to force Bilbo into this against his will. It may mean Erebor’s end, since he can’t figure out an alternative – yet then that will be his failure.

“Today, Bard suggested removing the Arkenstone from our negotiations,” Balin says, and Bilbo pales at the mention of the stone, “and the proposal was quite well-received. Also it was suggested that you reconsider your own share – once the Arkenstone has been removed, reparations to Thranduil and Bard can be paid from Erebor’s coffers, not your personal share.”

Bilbo, white as the sheets he is holding onto, nods along. His eyes are wide, but the light in them remains contemplative. Though Balin can tell that the terror is not far from the surface. Gandalf shuffles, and Balin continues to ignore him.

“The stipulation, however,” he says and clears his throat softly, “Is for you to hold onto the Arkenstone until negotiations have been completed.”

Bilbo blinks. “Me?” he asks, and his voice is very, very small.

“Indeed,” Balin musters a tired smile, “Bard trusts you, and Thranduil has indicated the same. Dain’s side may be wary, but they will agree.”

In truth, since they were not present, Dain and his advisors have to rely too heavily on rumors to be able to discern the happenings, then. The accusation of betrayal is grave, though, and a ready opportunity for them to discredit Bilbo – but even they won’t be able to deny it was a trade made for the sake of peace,

“Can’t Gandalf take it?” Bilbo inquires after a moment. He is looking down at his hands, radiating anxiety.

“I’m afraid not,” replies Gandalf at exactly the same time Balin starts his explanation. He falls silent, leaving the wizard to speak. “I’m afraid, I’m not very popular with a large number of negotiators. They would doubt my impartiality.”

And that’s not quite the entire truth, but it’s enough, apparently.

“But I’m not impartial, either,” says Bilbo.

“No, but all think you are,” replies Gandalf, “If you think on your actions – from an outsider perspective, you acted in the very interest of creating peace. Which is a goal all sides are amenable to.”

“I just wanted nobody to die.” Bilbo sounds very, very small when he says it, and it breaks Balin’s heart to push on.

“Which makes you the perfect candidate, Master Baggins,” he says, returning the conversation on its track, “But should it not be possible, we will try to find somebody else.”

That is a desperate lie, because Balin can barely think of three other persons he’d trust with this, and all of them are a month’s travel away at least. Nor would any of those three meet the approval of all in the council.

Bilbo sighs. “In this case… If I don’t have to do anything with it, I’ll take it.”

Balin swallows – this is Bilbo walking into another bout of pain, and Balin is urging him forward. It’s horrible, and he could just cast off his responsibilities and do as his heart told him. “You’ll only need to keep an eye on it,“ Balin promises, “Nothing more.

Gandalf is very, very unhappy with Balin. They both know this is unlikely to end well.

***

By evening, the rumor is that Bilbo’s life has been spared to not bring down the wrath of Bard and Thranduil upon the dwarves. Balin is approached by one of Dain’s particularly pro-active generals, who insists that “there’s no need to fear them. We shouldn’t cower, now – Erebor can’t be rebuild on such a shaky fundament. The traitor needs to be dealt his punishment; for Erebor is a dwarven kingdom, not one of men or elves.”

Balin does not deign to respond to this claim. But as he hurries away, his mind turns the words over – he knows, there is resentment growing among the troupes. Not only in Dain’s host, but, as Nori has implied, among men and elves as well.

The negotiations are taking too long, and each party is stalling, searching for ways to further their claims or discredit another. Bilbo has become a centerpiece in this – for Bard and Thranduil to extend their claims, for Dain and his host as an end to prove Thorin’s madness and to deny men and elves their claim. If played well, Dain could end with a crown and compensate the other two parties with a bare minimum.

And as appalled Balin is at Thorin’s actions, he doesn’t think Dain deserves this crown. So while he is weary, he realizes what he has to do. Instead of heading for his own tent, he changes the directions to Thorin’s.

***

Feeling restless, Kili has settled with Bofur and Nori for a game of cards. Nori is winning, even when he isn’t cheating, because Kili is rather distracted, and Bofur is more interested in having fun than winning the game.

Kili’s thoughts center on his brother, who remains pale and unable to walk unaided. The healers have assured him again and again that Fili will heal, he only needs time, though Kili remains uneasy. Tonight, once again, Fili fell asleep shortly after sunset, so eventually Kili crept out, wide-awake.

For a moment he had stared at the large tent next to theirs, thinking about Bilbo. Eventually he walks away, because he remembers how fragile Bilbo had looked. He probably won’t be up for company this later – or maybe Kili is just scared of looking at him and remembering just how close they had come to losing their hobbit.

Cards with Bofur and Nori prove a welcome, if not quite proper, distraction. But neither Balin nor Thorin are around to scold him, and playing for money is strangely meaningless when the riches of Erebor lie within reach.

Nori is regaling them with a terribly saucy story concerning one of Dain’s generals, when Bofur suddenly glances up. Kili follows his gaze, and they find Bifur headed toward them, eyes wide.

Whatever it is, it seems urgent. Kili tenses, and wonders why Bifur doesn’t shout – shouldn’t he?

The Khuzdul, once Bifur is close enough, is spoken too fast and too low for Kili to catch. Nori shifts on the balls of his feet, tense and a little awkward – Kili has a moment to wonder if Nori actually ever learned Khuzdul. He and Fili were taught because of their station, but he remembers that finding a proper tutor was hard in exile.

How much more so must it have been for Nori and his brothers?

He’s drawn from his contemplations when Bofur turns, his expression not as urgent as his brother’s, but still thoughtful. “Balin and Dwalin entered the mountain,” he announces, “On the quiet. Bifur was wondering why, and I have to agree…”

They turn to look at Kili who shrugs. He hasn’t talked to his uncle or Balin since the day before. “We could just ask them?” he suggests.

Nori blinks, but Bofur laughs. “Well, that sounds like a better plan than speculating. What do you say?”

Thus, their company of four makes their way up to the main gate. While the large gates remain closed, one of the small doors – just wide enough to let one dwarf pass – is indeed not truly shut. Before entering, Kili casts a glance over his shoulder.

The plain before Erebor looks magical, alight with many small lamps and bonfires. Most activity has died down, and he likes how peaceful it appears from above. Then Bofur nudges him, and with a rapidly beating heart, he follows him inside.

Nori, though, declares he will wait at the door and keep watch. So Kili is left with Bofur and Bifur to track down the old advisor. They move along quietly – Kili suspects Balin and Dwalin may be revisiting old memories, and should they walk upon a private moment, he’d rather leave unseen.

For now, trying to follow whatever traces they left, however, is a nice distraction from the worries haunting his mind.

And it is quite amazing how Bifur and Bofur track footsteps, pointing out wet patches of ground, disturbances in the dust, or how to tell when an item had recently been shifted. The path leads them closer to the treasury – and tension returns to Kili’s body.

He’d really much rather walk in on some private moment than onto something worse.

The memory of the coldness in his uncle’s eyes still makes him feel cold. How easily Thorin had dismissed the danger – how heavy-handed he’d been with Bilbo – though now that spell ought to have past.

For the sake of his own sanity, Kili can’t allow himself to imagine Balin and Dwalin succumbing to this, now.

When they catch up with the two brothers, Kili’s heart is in his throat. Dwalin stiffens with a growl, hand reaching for the axe at his side. He barely relaxes when he recognizes the familiar faces. Balin’s shoulders slump.

On the floor between them is a chest.

Bofur tilts his head. He clears his throat. “Well, then,” he asks to break the stiff silence,” are you absconding with anything in particular?”

His tone is light enough to suggest he wouldn’t begrudge them, even if they were, but Kili can’t find it funny. Bifur doesn’t either, and elbows Bofur in the ribs.

Balin sighs. “Not particularly,” he replies, “Rather, we were meaning to destroy this.”

This doesn’t make any sense in Kili’s mind, and apparently it doesn’t make much to Bofur or Bifur either. Still, it’s better than the idea of them trying to sneak away with a part of the treasure.

“There doesn’t happen to be the body of somebody particular in there?” Bofur asks, still trying to be playful, even though he sounds forced, “In a number of particular cases, I’ll be more than willing to help.”

Bifur mutters in agreement, and Dwalin cracks an ominous grin.

“I fear not,” replies Balin, “Though admittedly, the notion is not without merit.”

Indeed, from what Kili has heard about the negotiations, has made him quite glad to be considered too young to participate. Which has not saved him from being introduced to Dain’s advisors and generals – needless to say, the dislike had been mutual and instant the moment the advisors had figured he was not only a sister-son, but also not the first-born.

“What then has that pretty chest done to deserve its destruction?” Bofur asks, “An old grudge, perhaps?”

“Wish that it were,” says Balin, “No, I’m afraid nothing that simple. And it’s rather that for the good of us all, this chest would rather not exist.”

It’s an evasion. Kili may not be good at politics, but he recognizes this. Which also means, Balin is not making a particular effort at deceiving them.

“That does not sound good,” Bofur admits, now looking worried.

Bifur steps forward then, leaning down to inspect the chest. It is open, and nothing is inside as far as Kili can see. The woodwork is slightly uneven and dry, though it bears a few darkened spots. The metal work is flawless, even if on the interior there some dull lines in it, looking almost like scratches…

Kili’s mind goes numb.

Bifur says something in Khuzdul he doesn’t catch, but it’s sharp and Dwalin tenses again, and Balin raises both his hands to keep them all calm. Bofur has gone pale, looking at the two brothers in askance, and Kili just wonders what is going on, because those lines really look like scratches. Scratches made by fingernails.

Recently.

And Kili remembers the poor state of Bilbo’s hands.

“He was locked in this,” he says and his own voice sounds strange to his ears. Around him, the others fall silent, so he continues, “Bilbo. He was locked in this, wasn’t he?”

It’s a ridiculous conclusion – those scratches may have been put there by Smaug himself for all he knows, and he’s courting treason by suggesting it even, but then Balin closes his eyes and nods.

Bofur stiffens as if struck by thunder.

“How long?” he demands, and all traces of cheer are gone from his voice.

“After the scene on the parapets until the morning after the battle, to the best of my estimation,” Balin replies flatly. He sounds exhausted, now, while Kili’s mind is racing with horror.

The chest doesn’t look large now – Kili would have to curl up to fit, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to move once the lid has been closed. Bilbo may be smaller, but the chest still is not large. Kili thinks of the absolute darkness, and can’t help the shiver that runs down his back.

He thinks of being forced to lie that long, of being unable to move – how stifling it must have been, how suffocating – he breaks from the images, unable to bear them a moment longer. It’s a miracle they burglar survived for a day and a night, when the idea alone turns Kili’s stomach.

“… and Gandalf, too, thinks he will recover,” Balin says as Kili’s mind returns to the present.

Bifur growls something, and the only thing Kili catches in his uncle’s name.

Balin frowns. “Thorin doesn’t know we’re here. I will inform him, tomorrow, but he hasn’t ordered this.”

When it becomes clear, that Bofur, Bifur and Kili wait for an explanation, he continues with a nod. “Negotiations are not going well, concurrently, and a number of parties have a vested interest in proving Thorin mad with dragon-sickness.”

“But he was,” protests Kili.

Balin agrees unhappily. “Indeed. Proving it has passed, however, is neigh impossible, and the onset alone would suffice to challenge Thorin’s claim to the throne. Currently, everybody remembers quite clearly how Thror acted under the sickness – and then continue that they can’t on good conscience allow anybody suffering from the same affliction to take the throne.”

Kili tenses, while Bofur grumbles.

“Also, they would use it to discredit Thorin’s kin, too – if they can accuse Thorin of succumbing to dragon-sickness, they can accuse all of us. If they successfully discredit Thorin, it is unlikely the crown will fall to Fili. Our actions did not do us any favors, I fear.”

Kili feels cold – abruptly, their victory seems so fragile. And he can just see it happen – they have no host to back their claim – it would be so easy for an aspiring general or anybody with power, really, to do away with Thorin and Fili and take Erebor for themselves.

“Oh dear,” mutters Bofur eventually, “That is a fine mess, indeed. Destroying this chest will help it, then?”

In response, Balin shrugs. “It is an idea. Dain and his men have become rather inquisitive in how much Thorin’s actions over the Arkenstone may have been induced by dragon-sickness – Bard and Thranduil are suspecting this, too – and as long as Master Baggins remains unavailable, they’re all on the look-out for some proof. Dishonest as it may be, I believe it would be best if the learned nothing of this part of the story – else there is a good chance that Erebor will be lost for good.”

It is a horrible idea to see the Kingdom they fought for so unfairly disbanded by men, elves and dwarves. Kili though he’d known greed and intrigue, but this is beyond what he was taught in his history lessons, and he wishes they had the power to force them all out of it. The three parties may have helped in battle, but neither dared to face the dragon (true, Bard had slain the beast, but he had not dared to seek it out, either).

“So we cover up what our King did to our burglar, or we end up losing everything we fought for,” Bofur summarizes their situation, “Lovely, isn’t it? Well, it may sound selfish, but I’m inclined to believe Bilbo does not want to see Dain crowned King of Erebor, so how were you planning to destroy this?”

Kili blinks and turns to stare at Bofur. Balin’s eyebrows have risen as well, though, in his heart Kili feels himself agreeing to this solution. Even if it is not right.

The memory of Bilbo’s chalky face and shaky demeanor rises like a phantom. He wished for a speedy recovery then, for his uncle to take responsibility – though abruptly now, he realizes he can’t wish for the last part any longer.

Unless he wants to admit to succumbing to the sickness, Thorin can’t truly make amends. And Bilbo may have to back the lie.

“’s not right,” Dwalin mutters, “But we thought ‘bout dropping it down.”

It’s rather dwarven way of making things disappear. The depth of caverns makes it impossible to retrieve items dropped over a ledge above – and it is a common motive in dwarven literature (and history) to have uncomfortable enemies stumble over some edge to disappear until some unlucky miner finds a skeleton.

Bifur makes another suggestion, and Dwalin nods along. “Yes, I thought so, too. The smoke won’t give us away – it’s night, and the entire place still smells of dragon fumes, anyway.”

“But the remains of a fire will be unmistakable,” says Balin, “That would make us look rather guilty.”

“Things dropped off a ledge don’t always stay hidden, either,” says Bofur eventually, “Sometimes they get found. And with all the cleaning necessary, and a possible resettling, the chances aren’t good.”

Bifur adds more, and this time Kili understands him.

“About the remains,” Bifur says, “I can show you how to hide them.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili tells Fili what he discovered. Thorin tries and fails to find a way to make amends. Balin does his duty, and Bilbo resolves to do his as well - no matter what it might cost him.

Fili knows something is wrong the moment he opens his eyes. It’s either late at night or early in the morning, but Kili is still dressed in his daytime clothes. He sits on his cot, head bowed, and lost in thought – though from the tense line of his body, those thoughts can’t be pleasant.

“Kili?” he asks, softly.

The younger brother stiffens, before glancing up. His expression is terribly bleak, and Fili’s heart clenches. “What is it?” he asks, as fear begins to crawl through his veins, “What happened, Kili?”

 Kili shakes his head, but it’s a feeble protest. Fili reaches out – and once again bemoans his lack of mobility – to pat his brother’s knee.

“Tell me,” he says.

A shudder runs through Kili’s body, and for a moment Fili fears his brother won’t speak. He swallows down a sudden knot in his throat, forcing the fear aside – they have never had secrets from each other, and no matter how shaken Kili is, they won’t start now.

So he leaves his hand where it is, and waits for Kili to gather himself.

“I … we…” Kili takes a deep breath, and unconsciously wrings his hands, “We … that is Bofur, Nori and I … we were playing cards, and then Bifur arrived and said he’d seen Balin and Dwalin go into the mountain. We … followed.”

Kili breaks off, and Fili reaches for his hands, holding on. Kili doesn’t look at him, his wide-open eyes instead focused on the floor. Fili wonders where this tale is going – nothing yet appears particularly horrifying, but experience has taught him better than to urge Kili on.

“They were in the treasury,” Kili continues, “Next to a chest…”

His voice hitches strangely on the word, and it takes him a moment until he can carry on. “I didn’t understand at first…  But they were looking to destroy it. Even then… I think Bifur was the first to realize – he started shouting, and you know, I’m not any good at Khuzdul, especially when somebody talks that fast, but suddenly I got it.”

Kili’s eyes are glazed as if caught in some distant nightmare. Fili doesn’t like this look; neither does he like where the story is going.

“… Bilbo was locked in there,” Kili whispers, “I … I think uncle did it.”

The ground drops out under Fili’s feet. For a moment he’s entirely off balance, completely removed from reality. Then ice floods his veins and he slams back into his own body.

To find that there’s nothing he can say. Only stare incredulously as his mind whirls away.

Kili does not notice his brother distraction. A shudder runs through his frame. “There were scratches in the wood. Recent, most of them,” he mutters, remembering, “Looked as if they’d been made by fingernails.”

He draws his arms closer around himself. “Can you imagine, being locked in such a small chest? How dark … and how, how … you know, it’s small and you can’t move, and you don’t know if somebody will come for you and I … I…”

“Enough Kili,” Fili interrupts. Even if he’s beside himself, his brother’s distress registers.

“Enough,” he repeats and gathers enough strength to push himself up and wrap one arm around Kili’s shoulder. First his little brother stiffens; then he sinks boneless against him. Together they collapse against the pillows, and Fili takes the opportunity to run a hand through Kili’s hair.

His hands are steady, even though his heart is pounding. There’s cold sweat covering his back – Kili’s words will revisit him in his nightmares, and that is nothing compared to what their hobbit must experience. With a shudder Fili recalls the screams they heard last night – and wonders how Bilbo can ever recover from this.

But he is an older brother, so regardless of his own fears, he wants to assuage Kili’s. “He’ll be fine,” he mutters – Kili will know his words for what they are, but right now this is the only method in his employ – “Bilbo is strong. You have seen it – always surprised all of us. He’s going to be alright. Didn’t you actually speak to him, yesterday?”

Because even though Bilbo was definitely not fine then – and will not be for a long time – the fact that he is capable of holding a normal conversation is more than Fili thinks he would be able to do after such an experience.

***

Bilbo wakes from a nightmare he doesn’t remember with a noiseless scream on his lips. In a fit, he kicks off the blankets, not paying attention to the spikes of pain running through his body, all he knows is that these have to go. His heart is racing and he’s sweat-soaked once his mind clears enough to recognize his surroundings.

The tent is familiar, and he is grateful for the oil lamps brightening the interior, even though it must very late. Outside, the world is silent but for the wind, and the soft rustlings of fabric. His body is trembling violently, though he manages to sit. He can’t stay on his back – not when it summons those memories he can’t face.

Once the pounding of his heart fades, he realizes that for the first time he has woken alone. Gandalf is not there, nor is any member of the company. He sighs, and lets his shoulders slump – it’s not that their company is bothersome, but on his own he does not need to hold himself together quite so much.

Exhaustion rests heavily on his shoulders, though Bilbo knows he can’t sleep unless he wants to invite the nightmares. Instead, he very carefully draws a deep breath and takes stock of his body.

His shoulder aches fiercely, even though the pain won’t make him faint any longer. It feels better, too, so Bilbo guesses that it’s healing. The rest of his body is sore; his back in particular (and he can’t think about the why, not yet, not now), yet altogether not in too bad a shape.

Perhaps he can try getting out of bed? His last attempts had been obstructed early on, and he doesn’t exactly feel up to taking long walks – but getting his feet under him will help to restore some sense of normality (and won’t render him quite so dependent on others).

It’s slow going, and his legs feel like pudding after only three steps. He’ll need to train – and push himself – he recalls how back in his youth one of his Took cousins broke his leg. The boy walked oddly for months, because he was unwilling to listen to the instructions.

Bilbo is determined to listen. If there’s one thing he wants, than it is to regain his mobility as fast as possible. And then to…

Go home.

But can he? Is the quest truly over? Men and elves and dwarves are still negotiating the terms of peace out there, and Bilbo recalls Balin’s visit – and with a deep sigh he drops back down on the bed.

He doesn’t want to take part in these negotiations. He wants to help – see peace and the reconstruction of Erebor – he does not want to embroil himself in politics. Of all beings present, he is probably the one who knows the least –

-          And he certainly does not ever want to touch the Arkenstone again.

But he will, Bilbo admits to himself. He will, for the sake of his friends and all those he has come to appreciate. And he will not hand the Arkenstone over until all contracts have been signed, until the peace has been made durable.

He will not be going home soon.

***

At the council Thorin, once again, leaves most of the talking to Balin. Fortune smiles upon him in that his ancestors already preferred to send their advisors forward to negotiate – and Dain practices similar tactics – because he himself barely dares to open his mouth.

He hasn’t heard any news on Bilbo’s condition, and that is enough to twist his stomach. Once again, he desperately wonders how to make amends, but no gesture seems enough. Nothing can undo the harm he brought upon that kind spirit.

And his own suggestion to ask the elves for help had, unsurprisingly, been shot down.

“Thorin,” Balin had said, one eyebrow raised, “If you do this, then Thranduil will have confirmation. And he will use that knowledge to his advantage – you know that. Also, Dain may find out, and this can cause a mutiny. Neither Thranduil nor Dain will let you keep the crown should they find out.”

Thorin had bitten his tongue, and nodded.

He didn’t want the crown, he wanted to return to a time when Balin hadn’t always looked so disappointed, when Dwalin wasn’t eschewing his company, when he could talk to Bilbo and no other kings were demanding his time and riches. (But had such a time ever existed?)

Instead, he had sighed and nodded in agreement.

Now, it is again Balin’s voice that draws him from his thoughts. “… and Master Baggins has agreed to temporarily take charge of the Arkenstone.”

Dain does not look happy, but his advisors appear far more upset. Thorin’s heart stutters, and only endless lessons in his childhood let him remain collected.

“That’s good,” Bard chimes, while Thranduil frowns, “And what about his fourteenth – the part he promised us?”

“That you will have to discuss with Master Baggins,” Balin replies, “His share of the treasure is his to do with as he desires. As Erebor will see to compensate your losses, however, and due to the general confusion predating the battle, we would recommend regarding that particular promise as void.”

“And I will gladly do so, once compensation has been settled,” Bard declares. Thranduil remains hesitant, and afterwards, Dain approaches Thorin with a rather wide smile.

“I’m amazed at what a change of mind must have occurred there, cousin,” Dain says, loudly, “First you banish this burglar of yours as a traitor, and now you’re defending his share. I would like to meet him.”

“He is still recovering,” Balin returns, cautiously.

Dain raises both eyebrows. “But he will take the Arkenstone in his possession tonight, didn’t we just agree on this?”

“And so it will happen,” Balin smoothly agrees, “Though I believe the healers recommended keeping the pressures on Master Baggins as small as possible. It is only that there is no other solution to this matter that he will need to be involved.”

***

As glad as Balin is to have the council recess for today, his next task is not pleasant, either. His brother's form standing guard in front of the large tent has by now become a familiar sight. And just for once Balin wishes to retreat from this all – to be just one of the soldiers, to withdraw in a tent and close his eyes to all that is going on.

Instead he will forces Bilbo to do something that will not aid the hobbit’s recovery.

They all know this. (They all heard the screams the night before).

“Brother,” he greets Dwalin, who inclines his head in return.

“He’s alone,” Dwalin provides, and Balin wonders where Gandalf went. For now, however, that question is not pressing – so he steps past Dwalin, calls out, and then steps inside.

The interior of the tent is dim, and it takes his old eyes a moment to adjust. It is silent, too, and Balin makes out an unmoving lump on the bed. Once he steps closer, the lump turns out to be hobbit-shaped, though Bilbo is almost swallowed by two layers of blankets.

Balin takes a moment to study their burglar.

He looks better than when Dwalin pulled him from that forsaken chest in the treasury. Balin had certainly believed him dead, then, and even now it is a miracle that Bilbo’s mind survived the incident intact (he has seen warriors felled by less).

Still, Bilbo is pale and sleeps curled onto himself. He seems even smaller like this – but then, their hobbit lost a fair share of weight, too, and this new grief will not lend itself to regular meals. Bruise-like shadows remain under his eyes – any observer would judge him in dire need of rest.

Rest, that Balin cannot grant him.

With a sigh, he begins to call Bilbo’s name. The hobbit stirs, mumbles something, and turns to the other side. The movement is not smooth – rather it appears pained. Balin frowns and calls again.

Bilbo does not react to his voice. Though what seemed a minor movement before, develops into violent shivering. The murmurs grow louder, but for the sake of his life Balin cannot understand them. Bilbo twists uneasily in his sheets.

A nightmare, Balin understands. He reaches out, and then checks himself. Uninvited touch may, in this case, do more damage than help.

Instead he calls a third time, infusing his voice with the tone that used to make the soldiers of Erebor’s guard stand straight.

“No,” Bilbo mumbles, and his eyes open.

Tears glimmer in the dim light. There’s a degree of despair on Bilbo’s face that makes Balin’s heart stop. Makes him want to protect their burglar from the outside world – because this is their hobbit, and the rest of the world should not lay claim to him.

Instead he steps into Bilbo’s line of vision and waits as their burglar blinks the tears from his eyes.

“Master Baggins,” he begins, politely, while Bilbo wipes his eyes, “I was wondering if you had a moment?”

“Sure,” replies Bilbo, while his fingers tremble.

Balin presses his lips together. And forces himself to push ahead this task. “You may remember, we talked a bit about the stone, last night. Since Bard and Thranduil forwarded said suggestion, it was concluded earlier today.”

Bilbo pales further.

Balin swallows down the obstruction in his throat. “Tonight, at sundown, Dwalin will accompany you to the plain. Bard and Thranduil will return the Arkenstone to you – you are to keep it safe, though how you do that is entirely up to you.”

Instead of saying anything, Bilbo nods quietly. And Balin wishes to be somewhere else – because in this there can be no right decision.

“Furthermore,” he adds, “Bard and Thranduil want to speak to you. And before long, expect Dain and his advisors to seek you as well.”

“I see,” Bilbo replies, looking exhausted and numb.

He ought not to be here, Balin thinks. Their burglar has more than deserved a peaceful place to recover, after all the pain he was needlessly exposed to. However, here they are – drawing Bilbo deeper into a conflict he should not be a part of.

“While I hope this will not come to pass, I fear I must warn you to beware of Dain, or rather, of his advisors,” Balin continues unhappily, “They may try to coerce you into revealing certain pieces of information.”

Bilbo’s eyes are eerily wide in his now bloodless face. “What?” he asks, and his voice is barely over a whisper. Balin also notices his breathing fastens, yet hesitates to mention it.

“You must understand, Erebor’s riches have inspired avarice in many,” says Balin, “I do not know how immune Dain is to this thrall, but his advisors are all but pushing for ways to replace Thorin with Dain. It would not need much – after all, Dain has a host at his back, and we number only thirteen. Yet honor stays their hand – as long as they have no ground on which to refute Thorin’s claim, they won’t risk staging a coup. Especially with Bard and Thranduil watching the situation closely.”

The hobbit is listening. As sickly as Bilbo looks, Balin recognizes the sharp light in his eyes – a spark, that had all but vanished when they’d first pulled him from the chest, and that even now flickers at times.

It makes saying what he needs to say next all the more vile. “A strong spell of dragon-sickness would provide reason enough to discredit not only Thorin’s claim, but that of Fili and Kili, too.”

Bilbo looks at him, and Balin sees understanding mixed with heart-wrenching devastation.

 _Lie to them_ , is what Balin is telling him. _Don’t ever tell anybody of what was done to you._

_Don’t tell what Thorin did to you. Ever._

_It may help you, but it will destroy everything we fought for._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili is angry, Thorin angsts, Bilbo has an unfortunate encounter and nobody can do what they actually like to.

Thorin has not felt any appetite since the morning he woke up after battle. Too many matters need his attention, and guilt weights too heavily on his mind to enjoy a filling meal, even after days of starvation. He eats when he must – there is a duty he has to perform for kin and kingdom, and he will not prove himself even more of a liability than he has already been.

Today, his feet carry him to his nephews’ tent. Dwalin watches him pass, once more keeping the self-appointed watch at Bilbo’s tent. No noises are audible from in inside, yet the dark look on his former friend’s face speaks volumes.

He is glad to find his nephews well – both sit upright on their cots, soup bowls in front of them. As he enters, they turn.

And then Kili flinches, and Fili’s expression darkens.

Thorin feels ice flood his veins. They know, he thinks with trepidation. And as shameful as it is – he ought to have confessed to them his failure himself – he is afraid of their reaction.

Kili averts his gaze and stares listless at the floor.

Fili purses his lips.

“Uncle,” he begins, sounding oddly stiff and formal, “Perhaps we have already puzzled it together. But we would like to hear it from you: What happened to Bilbo?”

Thorin sighs – this reaction is at the same time better and worse than everything he expected. He feels Fili’s eyes observing his every movement as he draws a stool, and sinks down onto it, exhausted.

“Something there is no excuse for,” he replies, “The dragon-sickness may have taken my mind then, but it does not change the deed. And it is not only Master Baggins I do owe – it is the entire company, including the two of you.”

He dares not to look at them now. Instead, in his mind he sees a younger Kili and Fili beaming at their uncle – cheerful, innocent smiles he almost lost forever because he treasured a stone over kin. And while his nephews live, their smiles have certainly lost that childish innocence. Thorin’s own actions have seen to it.

“My actions almost cost your lives,” he says, “For that I will remain forever guilty.”

There is some odd, choked noise from Kili in response, and Fili’s voice sounds strained when he speaks next. “We understand, uncle, but that is another matter entirely. I asked you what happened to our burglar.”

Fili will make a very good ruler, Thorin thinks (and that is balm on his weary soul).

“Indeed,” he agrees, “The dragon-sickness has left me blind to many things. And once Master Baggins’ actions came to light, it led me into a maddening fury. With the battle drawing near, I could not exact punishment – a stroke of luck then, I believe – and instead went to lock Master Baggins up so that affair could be ended after the battle.”

He swallows. Before his eyes there appears a vision of the chest. Shorter than the cots, certainly, and perhaps only as high as the stool he sits on. There’s a memory of feeling Bilbo’s arm under his hands – the limb much thinner than it ought to be, and a vicious pleasure at his harsh grip on it.

Now the memory only leaves the taste of bile in Thorin’s throat.

“A chest,” Kili hisses abruptly, “You locked him up in a tiny chest!”

“I did,” Thorin admits, and wishes for the ground to swallow him. But perhaps such a death might be too swift for one like him.

Fili whispers something at his brother, and Kili bristles. “You didn’t see it,” he replies, “It was tiny! Barely large enough to turn around in. Bilbo was in there for hours – you can’t … there were nail marks in the wood, Fili. Nail marks.”

Thorin buries his face in his hands, and presses his eyes closed against the burn of tears. Kili has seen the chest – and Thorin hates himself even more for forcing his nephew to imagine what being locked within must have been like. For being the one to dim that bright smile further.

… and he can’t even bear to think what he has done to their hobbit.

Nail marks.

He had not seen them, then, though he remembers seeing bandages on Bilbo’s hands.

“How long?” Fili asks, and his voice only barely manages to penetrate Thorin’s thoughts. When the older dwarf fails to answer, he repeats sharply: “How long was Bilbo locked in there?”

Thorin swallows down a knot in his throat. “From before the battle until the morning after.”

“Mahal,” Fili whispers, sounding completely horrified, “Did nobody know?”

Thorin shakes his head.

“That… that…” Fili sputters, and there is steel in his voice. Steel and fury that is only developing and not there yet. “…what if you had died?”

That is something Thorin cannot dare to even imagine.

(With the chest buried under the rest of treasure, it is questionable whether Bilbo’s shouts would have been heard.)

Another strangled sound escapes Kili’s throat.

“Uncle,” Fili says, “Please leave. Now.”

Numbly, Thorin does as bidden.

***

Even with too many worries crowding his mind, Bilbo grows restless. Or perhaps it is because there are too many issues that he tries to get back onto his feet. He dares not to linger too long within his own head, not when he has yet to fear the monsters lurking there.

And Balin’s announcement carries its own shadows.

Much as he hates to be forced to obscure the truth, he finds he would hate it more for Dain to take the crown. He may not have met the other dwarf king, but he remembers him to be the one unwilling to support this quest.

A quest that Bilbo sacrificed too much for to see its spoils go to another. So he will collaborate in this lie, even if it conflicts with his personal morals (another reason, perhaps, why hobbits stay out of the politics of men and elves. Intrigue is not much his likening).

At least his legs prove willing to support his weight, though they feel shaky. Bilbo takes a deep breath and starts walking. Slowly he moves from one end of the tent to the other, stopping to shift his weight from time to time, stretch his arms and back – and his shoulder still aches fiercely – and curl his toes on the ground.

Somehow this returns a sense of stability to him that has been lost ever since Balin’s announcement.

The idea of facing Bard, Thranduil, Thorin and the stone tonight still makes him dizzy.

His entire self is completely off center. Now, with his feet on the ground, Bilbo notices how brittle the events have left him. And while it probably makes sense, he hates it. He has never enjoyed feeling unbalanced, but this is different from adventuring.

Where the quest changed his priorities, this final nightmare almost unraveled him.

Bilbo presses his lips together. There is a faint tremor in his fingers, and he wonders what he can do. Going home will take long, and is currently out of question. (Another painful thought he does not want to linger on for too long).

His mind is haunted, yet if he indulges that darkness, he fears he may not emerge again.

Back in the Shire, he would have gone for a walk. He usually did, before making big decisions (with the exception of this one). It doesn’t look sunny outside, but maybe seeing the sky will help.

He doesn’t know what seeing the dwarves will do to him.

And so a scared, but determined Bilbo Baggins makes his way outside.

***

Gandalf’s attention is drawn by angry shouting. He recognizes the voice as Dwalin’s, but not the words – it fast-paced, harsh sounding Khuzdul, and worry hastens Gandalf’s step.

When he arrives it’s to a scene that makes his blood run cold.

Dwalin is kneeling next to Kili, yelling at dwarf dressed in polished armor – an assistant of one of Dain’s advisors, Gandalf recalls – and making sharp gestures. Kili hovers protectively over an unconscious figure on the ground – the small shape of a hobbit.

Without a word Gandalf pushes past the onlookers and joins Kili.

“What happened?” he inquires sharply, already reaching out for the hobbit’s spirit with his magic.

The body on the ground is frighteningly pale in daylight, though his chest moves.

Dwalin curses. “That scum,” he says aloud, and ignores the other dwarf’s sputtering, “Tried to draw our burglar’s attention – by grabbing him at the arm.”

“I meant no offense,” the other dwarf hurries to proclaim, though Gandalf is not listening, cursing forever the idiocy of having Bilbo in the middle of this, “I only wanted his attention. He wasn’t reacting when I called, so I …”

“You did not call loud enough, then,” growls Dwalin, “I did not hear you, either and I was not far away. And that is no excuse to touch anyone as rudely as you did.”

A mulish expression remains on the other dwarf’s face – Gandalf stores it away to examine at another time (he knows it bodes ill, for obviously the tale of Bilbo taking the Arkenstone has spread) – for now, he leans back.

“He’s alright,” he tells Dwalin and Kili, “A scare, I believe. Let’s get him inside to recover. He ought to be waking shortly, I believe.”

Dwalin nods and scoops the hobbit up easily. Gandalf frowns – he does not like how fragile Bilbo looks in the light of the day. (And there is the point that Gandalf was the one to push him onto this adventure. He may have anticipated Bilbo changing – but never like this, never to render him so close to the brink of destruction).

Behind them, Kili rises as well.

“Lord Kham,” he says, enunciating the advisor’s title, “While I will regard this as an unfortunate misunderstanding, bear in mind that this will not be forgotten. Do not presume a second incident will be looked on this kindly.”

Dwalin casts a grim smile at Gandalf, when they hear the words as they enter the tent. Gandalf mirrors it, because he has never seen Kili try his hand at politics – but that was not, apparently, for a lack of skill.

“Or course, my prince,” the advisor replies.

When Kili rejoins them, all political graveness is gone, and he is once more a worried youngling.

 “Will he be alright?” he asks, while Dwalin gently settles Bilbo against the pillows.

Gandalf sighs and allows his shoulders to slump. “As alright as he can be,” he replies, because if he is honest to himself, he knows that this has already scarred Bilbo deeply.

Dwalin snorts. “Won’t happen if that scum keeps sneaking up on him.”

As harsh as his words are, Dwalin keeps his voice soft – and draws a blanket over Bilbo’s limb form, even as he continues his complaint. “You didn’t see it, but he called out once, and already was running over. I couldn’t even say a word, and that scum looks as if he’s about to attack our burglar, really. He didn’t even notice he’d fainted before he started uttering his questions.”

Kili looks horrified. “But why? I mean, that is rude – you wouldn’t act like this, much less when…”

“I’m afraid the tale of Bilbo’s largest theft has spread,” says Gandalf with a deep sigh, “And from what I can tell Dain’s troops do not like the idea of somebody trading the Arkenstone.”

Kili sucks in a sharp breath.

“Though I do wonder what Bilbo was doing outside in the first place?” Gandalf adds, and looks in askance at Dwalin.

“Said he wanted to catch some fresh air,” Dwalin replies, “Seemed steady enough on his feet for it, so I thought it was a good sign.”

“It was,” Gandalf agrees, even though this spark of hope hurts now that Bilbo’s attempt has been so violently snuffed.

“We must tell them,” Kili interrupts, “I mean, we must make an announcement – those dwarves shouldn’t treat Bilbo like this. They don’t know what happened.”

“They don’t,” says Gandalf and the burden on his shoulders grows heavier again, “But it’s not that easy, I’m afraid. They may not understand the reasons that inspired Bilbo’s actions. And if you tell them of the dragon-sickness, don’t you think Dain’s advisors would try to claim Erebor for themselves?”

Kili blanches and staggers to a seat, himself.  “Oh,” he mutters, and suddenly looks very young.

“It was a noble notion,” Gandalf adds, “And maybe one day that truth can be proclaimed. Now, however, it seems unfeasible. But, well, worry not too much – after tonight, I doubt any dwarves will approach your burglar that bluntly again.”

Gandalf feels both Kili’s and Dwalin’s eyes wander to him.

“Tonight,” he tells them with a heavy heart, “Bilbo will take the Arkenstone in his possession – so that it will no longer be an object of dispute within the council.”

***

Neither Dwalin nor Kili like the announcement. Though when Bilbo shows signs of waking, both willingly vanish – they’re painfully aware of what a strain company, especially dwarvish, currently is for their hobbit. And they’d both rather see Bilbo healthy than satisfy their own curiosity.

So Kili vanishes to the tent he shares with his brother, and Gandalf steels himself to expect a small inquisition in the near future. Dwalin returns to his watch outside. If his glower is twice as dark as normal, nobody comments.

Bilbo is slow to wake, and Gandalf waits with patience. A part of him is terrified at what this quest has wrought on Bilbo. He recalls his determination to change that stuffy hobbit all too well – but somehow this change is beyond anything he dared to imagine, beyond even his nightmares, really.

He doesn’t quite know what he was thinking.

Especially when Bilbo looks at him like this – weary, fatigued, but resigned to do his duty. It’s not what Gandalf wanted.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo says, “Is it evening already?”

“Not yet,” the wizard replies and makes certain to keep his voice gentle.

“That’s good,” Bilbo adds, “Because honestly, I don’t want to see that stone ever again.”

The wizard watches his charge with a visible frown on his face. Bilbo is reclining against the pillows against his back, eyes directed to the ceiling. With each visit, he seems a little frailer.

“I understand,” Gandalf says, “I think they all do, too.”

Bilbo sighs. “Balin explained the situation to me. I know there is no choice… I understand it, I really do, and in the end I joined them in order to win them back their home. So stopping this short before the finish would be … quite vexing, I believe.”

He manages a small, wistful smile, and Gandalf finds himself amazed at the strength behind it.

“I will do best I can,” he promises, “But really...”

Bilbo trails off, staring into the distance. “I’d just like to go home.”

tbc

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo receives the Arkenstone. And has an encounter with Dain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the kudos and the kind feedback! Always makes looking at my mail account a happy affair. ^__^

Dusk tints the world in shades of purple and grey. No shadows lengthen under the overcast sky, yet everything grows darker. A hush falls over the camps, as one by one their leaders don their finery and weapons.

The tension grows palpable, while rumors make their rounds. Concerning the Arkenstone, which few of the living men and dwarves here have laid eyes on. Among the elves the stone is a faint memory, a fairytale – and its beauty remains unparalleled. And while not as rare, the hobbit who will take into possession this priceless object is a subject of discussions, too.

Wasn’t he the one to steal it?

Hasn’t he betrayed the King?

And yet, wasn’t he a member of this company? Wasn’t he the one to brave Smaug? (And is it true that he does not wear shoes?).

Bilbo does not hear the rumors, but he listens to the fading noises as he dresses in the clothes Gandalf brought him. The finery is heavy and unfamiliar – and not entirely dwarvish, either. Bilbo recognizes some patterns and fabrics, others remain utterly foreign.

He is too exhausted to ask.

Instead he even dons Sting, when Gandalf tells him to.

“It’s just for show,” the wizard informs him, “You’ll be surrounded by warriors – they’re expecting you to be armed, too.”

Bilbo doubts his letter opener will command much respect. He buttons the thick velvet overcoat, and heavy as it is, he is glad for the warmth it provides.

“Ready?” Gandalf asks.

Bilbo nods, even though he isn’t. The trick, he tells himself, is not to think now. He can’t accommodate those memories lurking in the back of his mind, neither can he give into the emotions warring in his chest. He hates to be reduced to this, and is too tired to actively change it.

And his wish not to be involved further, to go home and recover, will not be fulfilled. So he closes his eyes, draws a deep breath and follows Gandalf outside.

The camp is silent, though to his surprise he finds Dwalin, Bofur and Bifur waiting. Bofur even smiles encouragingly – but they all make certain not to step too close or to touch Bilbo. Apparently the tale of his encounter this afternoon has spread. And Bilbo doesn’t quite know whom to hate for this new development that has forced even those he has no reason to fear to keep their distance.

“We’ll be watching your back,” Dwalin announces, and his voice draws Bilbo from his thoughts. He can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine.

Bifur adds something, and Bofur nods. “It’s the least we can do,” he says.

Bilbo manages a faint smile, just as Gandalf turns. “It is time.”

By the time they arrive, the hosts have assembled. There was no call for them, no need for the soldiers to be here – and yet curiosity drew them in. They are forming a large circle around the four “official” parties already there.

Once Gandalf arrives, they all fall silent. Bilbo keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, following behind the wizard. The atmosphere rests heavily on his shoulders, and his heart is pounding rapidly. He fears what will happen once he looks up – he can’t faint again, not now.

Not when somehow Erebor’s fate hangs by a thread.

Eventually, the feet Bilbo spies in the corner of his vision fade away. A gust of cold night air caresses his cheeks, and then Gandalf takes a step aside, not forward, and stops. Bilbo steps up beside him, even though his knees feel weak.

He hears Dwalin, Bifur and Bofur stop behind him – and even Gandalf draws back a little.

Never in his life has Bilbo been so exposed. The looks of three large hosts of warriors have come to focus on his form – and never before has he felt so small and unprepared. But he can’t think about this now.

Bilbo draws a deep breath and lifts his head.

It’s worse than he imagined. In the fading daylight he can’t see where the ring of warriors surrounding them ends. Elves, dwarves, men – differentiating between them become impossible in the twilight. The gleam of steal, however, remains notable.

If this goes ill, Bilbo begins to think, and immediately pushes that thought aside.

It cannot, and this is a pressure not only he feels. But also the other four “official” parties.

Opposite to him he finds Bard and Thranduil. They do not stand next to each other, but are backed by an assortment of their own. Bilbo may recognize a number of the elves that surround Thranduil – all armed, even if they are wearing robes instead of armor – yet any memories bring his mind right back to the edge of that dark, dark abyss.

Bard is only accompanied by three other men, two of whom are sporting visible injuries. They make a stark contrast to the elves – their clothes may be of a good make, but compared to Thranduil they seem faded and worn. Bilbo feels Bard’s eyes seek out his – they shared friendly words back in Laketown (what feels like another lifetime) – and that may be concern there, and Bard was there when…

Bilbo looks away as fast as he can without moving too abruptly. He is panting, he realizes, and cold sweat covers his palms. Still, he forces himself to keep his back straight.

Dain stands with his advisors, assistants and guards – twenty dwarves, all dressed in polished armor and fine robes. The gemstones on their jewelry glitter even in the fading daylight. Adjacent to them finally stands Thorin, flanked by his nephews and Balin

They look impressive.

Even without a huge entourage, Thorin manages to command the attention of all assembled. Especially, when he steps forward and raises his voice.

“Fellow warriors,” he calls out, “We have fought together for a bitter victory. And on this night, we will take one step further to make permanent this hard-won peace.”

It is good that all are looking elsewhere. Bilbo’s head spins, and it’s all he can do to keep standing. His heart flutters nervously in his chest, and a part of his mind screeches at him to run as far as possible.

“Ere the goblins and orcs set upon us,” Thorin continues, unaware and too far away to notice Bilbo’s plight, “We found ourselves at an impasse, at this self-same place. A dear member of my company then took it upon himself to resolve this – the hobbit Bilbo Baggins traded the Arkenstone so that we would have peace.”

There is a hush. This story does not match the rumors – but then there are many, and Bilbo doesn’t dare to analyze the changes now. Neither can he look at Thorin.

Bilbo’s fingers tremble and he’s glad for the long sleeves of the coat. He forces himself to keep his head up, directs his gaze at a patch of sky over Thorin’s head and hopes he does not look as lost as he feels. Even with Gandalf and Bofur only steps away, he is alone in this.

As long as tensions run this high they can’t even dare to speak to him.

“From now on peace will no longer rely on this bargaining chip,” Thorin declares, “Negotiations may continue, but as we all, as this battle has proven, fight on the same side, we can settle this as equals. And for this sake, tonight, the Arkenstone will be returned into the custody of Master Baggins.”

Thorin is looking at him, now, as are probably a thousand more eyes.

Bilbo can’t breathe. The sky, he thinks, the sky has grown rather dark –

“Until peace has been settled,” Thorin adds, “Then, and only then, the Arkenstone may yet again change hands.”

Whatever blood was left in his face drains away. Bilbo knows he can’t look to Gandalf, can’t scream or protest – can’t even reach up to loosen his collar. Too many eyes are watching his every movement far too closely.

“Until peace has settled,” Bard repeats, and Thranduil inclines his head in agreement. On the other side of the field, Dain mirrors the movement with a smirk on his face.

Watching Dain, Bilbo almost misses how one of the elves steps forward. When he catches sight of the non-descript, yet familiar box, he feels faint. An echo of a memory rises in the back of his mind – hands gripping the collar of his jacket, his own feet dangling over an abyss – and the condemning curse of “betrayer”.

Bilbo shudders. The elf is headed toward him, so he forces himself to step forward as well.

They meet half-way.

The elf looks unperturbed, his face vaguely familiar – but his calmness is all the more striking since Bilbo feels like he is coming apart. Fraying at the seams. He can’t breathe under the thousands of watchful eyes and the weight of rumors and expectations.

The elf holds out chest and Bilbo’s fingers tremble when he reaches out to receive it.

He feels the more than the weight of the Arkenstone settle on his shoulders. There is a touch of fate to this – within his hands he holds, quite literally, Erebor’s future. And this responsibility is something he would not have been willing to bear had he been hale.

Now, however, he has to lock his knees to keep from collapsing on the spot.

“Until we have peace,” Bilbo murmurs into the deafening silence and the wind carries his words across the field.

The way back is, perhaps, worse. Attention drifts away from him once Gandalf and Dwalin flank him, and hide him from the spectators’ gazes. Chatter rises, and the convention of soldiers begins to drift apart. With each step however, the world around Bilbo spins a little faster, and he can’t hear what Gandalf is saying over the pounding of his own heart.

Darkness rises at the corners of his vision.

He hurries his step, and if he stumbles before he vanishes into his tent, Dwalin and Gandalf keep him obscured from curious onlookers. His mind is spinning – he can’t even form coherent thoughts anymore. Snatches of memory mingle with pieces of nightmares, and he can’t quite breathe deep enough.

The chest drops from his hand with a dull thud.

Bilbo drops to his knees before it, though the world is askew and he isn’t certain if he is really on his knees. His own blood is too loud, his pulse too fast – and there may be somebody shouting his name in the background – but now, away from all, he allows himself to finally collapse.

***

Once this nightmare has concluded, Thorin retreats into the small tent serving as his personal space concurrently. He does not look back, nor reply to any of the questions thrown his way. Keeping his back straight and his face even takes up every bit of self-possession he can gather.

Only when the fabric has closed behind him, he allows himself to fall into a chair, and bury his face in his hands.

Had he not thought himself incapable of sinking any further?

Yet he has stepped out there, denied his own deeds, twisted the tale, lied and pushed all the responsibility on the shoulders of one hobbit. One particular hobbit, that Thorin already owes far too much.

A shudder runs down his spine.

He had not dared to look at Bilbo for long. But what he saw made his chest clench with guilt and horror. When he closes his eyes, he still can see the limp body Dwalin pulled from that thrice-cursed chest.

The gasp he has to stifle is lost, when somebody enters the tent.

Thorin glances up with glare, wondering who would dare to disturb him – and finds Balin staring down, his lips a thin line.

“As I did not find you before,” Balin says and his voice is sharp and hard, “You ought to know that the chest was destroyed.”

Guilt has coiled itself so tightly around Thorin’s mind, that he needs a minute to sort out Balin’s words.

“You…,” he blinks.

Balin frowns. “It needed to be done. If somebody found it, it could too easily be used against you.”

Nail marks, Kili had shouted, Thorin remembers. Nail marks.

He thinks of being trapped in such a small, dark space, scratching at the surface. How blinding must the terror have been to claw at such unforgiving wood? How far gone Bilbo not to notice the pain?

Thorin swallows bitterly and hangs his head.

“Should I abdicate?” he mutters under his breath. Because Erebor is not worth this.

He won that kingdom so his kin could live in peace. This is not peace at all.

When Balin remains silent, he repeats himself, a little louder. “Should I do it? Let Dain have the crown…”

Balin snorts. “You don’t want that. Nobody wants that. And you know just as well as I do, that if you abdicate, it won’t be Fili on the throne next.

“We could name somebody else from the company,” Thorin suggests, even though he knows its futile. Naming somebody – especially should it be not a noble – is perhaps the easiest way to ignite a rebellion. Or a coup.

“They would never accept that,” says Balin, “Also, you need to be aware that if they can successfully claim you to be under the spell of dragon-sickness, it will be easy to pin the same onto the rest of us as well.”

Thorin remains silent.

“It is lucky, I suppose,” Balin continues darkly, “That Master Baggins holds us this dear in spite of everything. I can’t think of any other who would have risked heart and health for those that would have left them to die.”

There is no denying that Balin is right. Though something strikes Thorin as odd. “But Gandalf agreed to this as well. Doesn’t he…?”

“He certainly knows we do not deserve this. No, I believe the wizard is well aware of what is happening,” replies Balin, “And relies on Bilbo’s kindness in this just as much as we do.”

***

After having, once again, settled an unconscious hobbit against the pillows, Gandalf and Dwalin leave the tent. The wizard is lost in thought – he does not like Bilbo’s pallor, nor the way the hobbit seems to be shrinking under all the burdens piled upon him. And he does not like his own part in this – for being the one having brought Bilbo hear, and lately, having allowed for Bilbo to receive the Arkenstone. But with too much going on, even he was hard pressed to find a better solution.

He’s gladdened that Dwalin has taken Bilbo’s security to his heart. It won’t be long until he will be sought out by sycophants and intrigue – at least Dwalin may scare away a few of them.

“Master Gandalf,” a new voice cuts through his thoughts.

The wizard glances up and realizes he hasn’t even noticed Fili and Kili approach. Both dwarves have stripped off the most ostentatious of their finery, yet they are still conspicuous. Also, the way Fili is leaning on his younger brother casts heavy aspersions on the straight stance he presented on the field.

They’re all acting in a charade that is not helping one of them.

Gandalf nods at the two young dwarves.

“How is he?” Kili asks, concern plain on his face.

Gandalf sighs. “Not too good. I hope he’ll sleep through the night, for once. He needs the rest.”

Fili nods. “He will. Tomorrow, I suppose, we can expect Dain’s advisors to go and seek him out.”

Dwalin growls at this. Yet they all know, their combined efforts to help Bilbo could not protect him from the chest that now sits innocently in a corner of the tent.

***

The night does not pass well.

Twice Bilbo wakes, sweat-soaked and screaming. His nightmares are growing clearer. And they always, always include Thorin’s face twisted in fury.

One time he’s dropped and falls, and falls and falls until he ends in a space so small he can neither move nor breathe. The next time Thorin pushes him down, steadily further down until all light fades and his hands close around Bilbo’s throat.

Bilbo doesn’t even know what he is screaming for anymore. It may for help, it may be a plea for Thorin to relent – regardless of what, no matter how often he sees those visions, the pain in his chest does not abate.

(He does not know, that at one point Thorin’s feet have carried him, once more, to Bilbo’s tent – without any idea of how to help, but wishing to do so. He cannot sleep listening to those screams; not without remembering.

Dwalin turns him away with a shake of his head.)

The third time, Bilbo dreams of the chest. Though it looks rather like a coffin, and he can’t move at all. There are no footsteps in this dream. Neither does the lid open – only the air keeps growing hotter, and hotter, and Bilbo knows he will die here …

And then he opens his eyes to the pre-dawn light filling his tent.

His heart is racing, and the only sensible thought his mind can come up with is a desire for fresh air. He can’t stay inside, no matter how weak his body is.

Blindly, with his vision fading in and out, he stumbles outside, until finally cold air hits his face.

Bilbo draws a deep breath and allows the cold to spread through his body, calming his frantic pulse and mind. He is not in that horrible chest – his body shivers at the notion itself – he stands under a wide, open sky.

It’s not hot and suffocating either.

And very slowly, his mind begins to clear. He doesn’t dare touching those memories that have been invoked in gruesome detail in his nightmares. Instead, he lets his gaze wander across the camp. Silence lingers, since most soldiers remain asleep, and only a few are already up, preparing the day’s work.

The plain remains barren, though the corpses have been removed. Erebor is a dark shape against a s brightening sky. And the air retains the cold bite of night.

Back in the Shire, he thinks suddenly, he would have enjoyed a morning like this. The sky is clear, and watching the sun rise has always been one of his small joys of life.

Not it feels like a very shaky source of contentment.

And somewhere, deep beneath all the confusion, terror and uproar still possessing him, he feels angry. Angry, that he can’t enjoy what he used to anymore. Angry, that he can’t face his memories – that he has been reduced to this.

“Master Baggins,” says another voice.

Abruptly all anger vanishes and Bilbo jumps. Though when he looks over his shoulder he finds Dwalin standing a short distance away, watching him.

“Are you not going back inside?” he inquires.

Bilbo takes a deep breath to steady his fluttering nerves again. It’s horrible how just a simple call in his direction unravels him. How he can’t even hold onto any emotion other than terror for very long.

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

It may be cold enough out here to make him shiver, but it is better than the stuffy warmth on the inside. The warmth threatens to unearth too many memories. And monsters he can’t face. Not when they are already waiting for the moment he dares to close his eyes again.

“Well,” says Dwalin, “Then at least take this.”

He holds out what looks like a fur-covered blanket. Bilbo realizes he is in little more than a long nightshirt which is neither appropriate for the weather, nor for their surroundings. With a shrug he accepts the garment and wraps around his shoulders.

It’s too large and trails on the ground, yet Bilbo can’t quite bring himself to care. Neither does Dwalin’s observant gaze bother him much while he watches the sky.

“You need to be careful,” he says after a while.

Bilbo nods. The moment he agreed (though he never had a choice, did he?) to take part in this political gambit, he placed himself straight at the center of the power play.

“Not only because of that,” Dwalin nods into the direction of the tent, “But I doubt the rumors will be quelled that easily.”

And Thorin’s words last night did not clear up the confusion. Bilbo can’t quite decide whether he would have wanted Thorin to straight out lie about his theft of the Arkenstone or just speak the truth. He doesn’t think he would have survived either.

Naturally, rumors of the Arkenstone’s theft – of his betrayal – linger.

“So just, when you go out like this, make sure you don’t go alone,” Dwalin says while Bilbo thinks about what dwarves do to traitors, “Make certain either Bifur or myself are with you. Gandalf, too, in case neither of us is available.”

He looks so pleading Bilbo has to let go of his nightmarish vision, and whispers an “Alright” in reply. Then they fall silent and watch the sun rise.

***

Bilbo does not feel like going back into the tent. His pulse has settled, and while he still feels exhausted, he dreads sleeping. And the box in his tent.

Instead, he sets out for a walk, Dwalin following him. They don’t make it very far, before they run into Dain and his advisors, on their way to council.

“I hear you are suffering from night terrors,” says Dain.

Bilbo wants to grimace at this. Instead he forces a self-depreciating smile. “The entire camp will have heard that, by now,” he replies, and likes the way Dain’s advisors stiffen at this.

“One wonders what may have caused them,” one of the advisors – Loni, Bilbo thinks his name is – wonders aloud. Dain remains observant, and doesn’t check what Bilbo feels is a question too personal. Behind him, Dwalin stiffens.

But Bilbo has fended off enough relatives while feeling less than his best, and he won’t let himself be intimidated by these dwarves – there are already enough things he fears.

“A dragon, among a number of other incidents,” Bilbo responds calmly. It’s a nice reminder that Dain and his men had no part in slaying the dragon – or the entire quest, to be quite honest. And it’s not even a lie – Smaug has featured in Bilbo’s nightmares – though they do not need to know that this wasn’t recently.

And indeed, Dain’s advisors pick up on the thinly veiled accusation. There’s some whispering in Khuzdul, which leaves Bilbo utterly unimpressed – really, he may not understand them, but they certainly aren’t inspiring any confidence here – and Dwalin growls.

Eventually, another advisor – this one clad in a dark red fur robe – steps forward. “And, we believe, Lord Thorin’s behavior has probably not helped matters?”

The dwarf goes too far on several instances, and from the corner of his eye Bilbo sees Dwalin reach for the grip of his axe. The motion does not go unnoticed – but it is perhaps only Dain and Dwalin who see Bilbo’s signal for Dwalin to remain.

“His majesty,” says Bilbo with emphasis, because Thorin is King under the mountain, not a mere lord, as these dwarves would wish him to be, “reacted to a perceived betrayal.”

“Yet it was perceived. And I believe your efforts were repaid quite harshly,” protests the advisor.

Bilbo feels his patience run thin. The entire issue dances dangerously close to those memories he can’t yet touch – but he can’t allow these dwarves to see that.

“Even a perceived betrayal will feel like a real one,” replies Bilbo since he believes that Thorin would have been angered even without the spell of dragon-sickness had Bilbo secretly traded the Arkenstone to his enemy, “The rest of the matter is between ourselves.”

“My cousin still appears rather grieved by whatever occurred,” Dain weights in, a curious glint in his eyes, “It must have been rather bad.”

Bilbo silently counts to three, and forces his trembling hands behind his back. He hopes he can retain his calm façade under Dain’s inquisitive gaze.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo replies, managing to makes his voice sound almost light, “It was rather harsh, indeed.”

“I have been told he held you over the parapets by your neck and threatened to throw you down,” Dain says bluntly.

This time Bilbo can’t stop himself from grimacing. He isn’t quite certain if the words make it sound worse or better than it was – they certainly can’t encompass the suffocating emotions Bilbo felt then.

“He did,” Bilbo replies, deciding to be just as direct.

“He threatened to kill you?” Loni exclaims, scandalized.

Dwalin shifts his weight, and Bilbo glares at Loni, though he is rather thankful for the opening. “Well, he thought he was betrayed. I had been given to understand that betrayal is not a crime taken lightly among dwarves – I believe under other circumstances,” he casts a meaningful glance at Dain’s company, “I would have found myself dead sooner rather than later.”

Dain stiffens at that. It’s almost imperceptible, but Bilbo catches it.

“Anyhow,” Bilbo continues politely – in the same tone he used to get Lobelia out of his door -, “I believe this is between his Highness and myself. Good morning.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking in circles, Kili and Fili trying to sort themselves out, Dain acting in unexpected ways and Thorin attempts to reconciliate with Bilbo. In short: drama!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updating (am on holiday and surprisingly busy), and I shall try and get back to any comments soon - if I fail, know I am still eternally grateful. :)

“Stay down – you need to rest,” Kili protests, but Fili won’t listen.

His body aches fiercely, and its infirmity is what kept him in his cot, even when he had first Dain address Bilbo. Neither Dain not his advisors must have been aware just whose tent they had been standing behind – both him and Kili had shared a tense look, before resolving to keep their silence.

It had been close, though.

Especially when that advisor had attempted to bear down on Bilbo – amazingly their hobbit had deflected the inquiries and sounded utterly composed.

Which is a mask, as far as Fili can tell, and he fear what is hidden underneath. So the moment he sees Bilbo return to his own tent, followed closely by Dwalin, he is on his feet.

And even though Kili protests, Fili knows his brother, too, longs to run over and make certain their burglar is alright. Last night already was too much – Fili does not like to indulge those memories. Standing next to his uncle had been a challenge; both for his healing body and his mind (because how does he treat Thorin, knowing what he knows?)

 He stumbles forward, leaning heavily on Kili. Together they navigate the short distance, paying little attention to the glances cast their way. Fili whisks the tent flap back, relived (because the pain in his leg remains debilitating, even if Kili bears most of his weight).

They’re greeted with a choked scream from Bilbo, and Dwalin’s hand is on the handle of his axe before he recognizes them. It takes a moment for the scene to register with Fili – Bilbo propped up on the bed, cheeks flushed and Dwalin kneeling before him – then his blood runs cold and his determination renews itself.

Dwalin glares at them before turning back to Bilbo, telling him to calm down, and not to “mind Dain, because they won’t bother you again. I won’t let them – they should have known better in first place. You don’t need to worry about a thing. They will never approach you again.”

Bilbo is gasping for air, breathing to fast, and shaking his head.

Fili can’t tell if Bilbo even comprehends what Dwalin is saying, but he has to take his chances.

“Master Baggins,” he calls, interrupting Dwalin as he sinks onto a stool behind him, “Bilbo.”

Kili stays at his side, radiating confusion. Fili ignores him for the time, rather satisfied that Bilbo lifts his head and looks at him. The hobbit’s eyes are huge, filled with receding panic, and brimming with tears.

Fili purses his lips. “Sorry for barging in like this – but we overheard what happened.”

Bilbo flinches and Fili senses Kili and Dwalin tense.

“As Dwalin said, they had no right to approach you like they did,” Fili says, and then adopts a grim smile, “But neither are you required to answer them. Furthermore…”

He wets his lips. “Furthermore, if you decide to answer, you can tell them whatever you want to.”

Kili blinks, and Fili feels Dwalin turn his head to stare. He leans forward. “Whatever. Lie to them; tell them the truth - that is your choice.”

“But…” Bilbo’s voice is shaky, “the truth…”

“Would expose what Thorin did, yes,” Fili replies, “But what about it? Why should you lie to cover up what he did? You certainly don’t owe him allegiance.”

Bilbo remains hesitant. Fili is somewhat glad to see him contemplate his words, though he isn’t entirely certain the hobbit has understood his point yet. Dwalin and Kili aren’t moving – at least Dwalin probably did not expect Fili to encourage Bilbo in this direction.

“You have every right to demand justice be served,” Fili tells Bilbo.

The hobbit sighs and plucks at his blanket.

“What Thorin did was punishable by our laws. He will accept whatever punishment you or a court in your stead will bestow upon him,” Fili says.

Bilbo looks back at him. “I know…” he mutters and sounds utterly exhausted, “I know I could do that, and, well, right now it even seems as if nobody would begrudge it if I did.”

 “Then you should do it,” Kili adds, softly.

Bilbo shakes his head. “I can’t.”

Nobody voices the question and Bilbo manages an empty smile. “Because if I did, Dain would become King of Erebor. They’d accuse all of you of being dragon-sick, and then Dain would be King of Erebor, and I don’t even know if he’d pay back Bard or the elves or if they’d not just start another war and…”

“Shush,” Dwalin tells him. It’s telling that he does not touch Bilbo, even if he is close enough to do so. The hobbit slumps, “I can’t,” he mutters.

“Well, they wouldn’t be wrong,” Kili says suddenly, “I mean, we probably all went a little weird over the gold – they wouldn’t be wrong with their accusations.”

“But you’d lose Erebor,” Bilbo protests.

Kili shrugs. “But we’d deserve it.”

Even Fili is taken aback at the ease with which his brother is willing to lose his birthright. Dwalin says nothing, but the light in his eyes holds a degree of admiration.

“I mean it,” Kili adds, “We were wrong, and ought to owe up to it. Instead you’re the one suffering, just so we don’t lose our gold. You don’t need to cover up for us – we’ll… we’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

Fili swallows, his chest oddly tight. Kili has the right of it, he knows, but losing their kingdom over this leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He wants justice for Bilbo and to keep their kingdom – although currently it seems impossible for both to happen.

Bilbo relaxes and eventually looks up at Kili and Fili again. “That… well, that…”

He shakes his head. “It’s alright,” he mutters, “I don’t … I don’t like covering up, as you said, but I don’t want Dain to rule Erebor either. It’s not what I signed on for…”

Fili finds his brother looks about ready to cry and Dwalin is consciously not moving a muscle. It would be funny if his own heart wasn’t trembling as well. Trust Bilbo to make his eyes burn.

The hobbit seems unaware of what his words are doing to his small audience. “I promised I’d help you take back your home,” he says and as soft as his voice is, there is determination behind it, “And I would be betraying my own goal if I let it slip from you now, wouldn’t I?”

Before either Fili or Dwalin can react, Kili has thrown his arms around Bilbo. There’s a choked-off exclamation, Fili sees Bilbo stiffen, but Kili does not release him. Instead Kili clutches Bilbo tightly to his chest and buries his face in the crook of Bilbo’s neck until the hobbit eventually relaxes.

Still, Bilbo’s hands tremble when they come up to pat Kili’s back.

Fili feels shaky on his own feet when he rises. His heart rejoices to hear Bilbo sides with them – will do what he can to affirm their claim to the kingdom, and yet he fears that the price is too high. Already this has put more of a strain on Bilbo than all the orcs they encountered did together.

And he fears what is to come.

***

Dain strides into Thorin’s tent unannounced. It’s both a breach of protocol and an invocation of their prior familiarity. Thorin stiffens – after last night he does not know whether or not he can trust his cousin to back him.

“I met your hobbit,” Dain proclaims with a smirk.

Thorin tries to stop himself from reacting, but can’t suppress a flinch. He only hopes the fear on his face remained concealed.

“Quite an interesting fellow, if I may say so,” Dain continues, “Talked loops around my advisors, and I have to admit, instead of answering my own questions, I find my curiosity even further piqued. But perhaps, dear cousin, you can help me?”

Thorin raises an eyebrow, even though his insides clench He can’t deny Dain like this, not when he is invoking their relation – yet the glint in Dain’s eyes makes him wary. There is a kingdom on the line, and a crime to cover.

“I’ll try my best, though to speak the truth, Master Baggins has also puzzled me on more than one occasion,” Thorin replies.

“I am inclined to believe that,” Dain says, “But I have to admit, what interests me are far more recent events. And, to spare us further grief and misunderstandings during negotiations, I would have you tell me the truth, cousin.”

Thorin does not reply. Instead he inclines his head for Dain to continue.

“The hobbit bartered the Arkenstone to prevent a confrontation – without your leave, as far as I understand it,” Dain says, “So he did breach his contract, did he not? I understand if you aim to protect him, but …”

Thorin holds up his hand. “You may put it like this, cousin,” he can’t help emphasizing the word, invoking the same familiarity Dain has done, “But it is not the truth.”

“What, then, is the truth?” Dain asks.

Thorin shrugs. “A misunderstanding,” he says and it sounds shallow to his own ears. But it is the best explanation he can come up with unless he wants to reveal the true extend of desperation, desolation and sheer madness of those days, “Master Baggins contractually owes one fourteenth of all the treasure – he was never informed he could not chose the Arkenstone for himself.”

“But did he understand the value of the Arkenstone?” Dain raises an eyebrow.

“Only as far as it could serve in a trade,” Thorin replies.

“And yet you threatened to kill him for it,” Dain says.

Thorin has to rely on century-old lessons to keep his expression straight. He can still feel the soft flesh of the hobbit’s neck under his fingers, hear the wind howling around them – see the chest, and the limp figure they had pulled from it.

“War was on my doorstep. And it appeared one of my own had betrayed me,” Thorin replies.

Dain leans forward. “He told me much the same, cousin. And also told me that by tradition our laws would have perhaps warranted a much harsher punishment.”

Thorin’s blood runs cold. Dain has the truth of this – death for traitors is to be either instantaneous or unimaginably cruel (and yet not as cruel as the fate Thorin almost condemned Bilbo to. A traitor’s death is public, shameful and painful. It is not to be forgotten in a chest too small to allow much movement, to pass away alone in the darkness).

“Though I suppose it might have not been wise to deal that judgment right then and there,” Dain continues, “Especially if, as the word goes, Gandalf, Bard and Thranduil were watching. They are all rather fond of the Halfling, aren’t they?”

Thorin agrees to this, though he does not like the glint in Dain’s eyes.

“Fairly unsurprising – who wouldn’t be fond of the one handing you your opponent’s heart on a golden plate?” the other King adds.

Thorin sucks in a sharp breath and stiffens. “What are you implying?”

Dain shrugs. “Not much. But it is something I can’t help thinking about – whose interests is Master Baggins protecting? Your actions then may have given him little cause for loyalty, and yet you had no qualms to offer him the Arkenstone.”

“Also,” Dain tilts his head, “When he first brought the stone to your opponents, what cause did he have? Why did he choose to go behind your back at that time? Are you certain you can trust him?”

There is nothing Thorin can say. Because Bilbo’s reason is the dragon-sickness that lasted so heavily on his entire company – and if Thorin reveals it, Dain has every reason to declare him unfit to rule.

He can’t say a word. And instead has to accept that regardless of how much Bilbo sacrificed for Erebor, very few dwarves will ever recognize his actions for what they were.

***

“Master Balin,” a familiar voice calls and the white-bearded dwarf turns.

Bard catches up to him, and waves his company to retreat. It’s unusual, and already Balin fears many inquisitive and gauging stares come to rest upon them. He slips into a comfortable place, subtly steering Bard from the crowd while the exchange pleasantries – until they reach one of the places where they may be watched, but not overheard.

Bard is not familiar with this and only commends the “nice view”.

“I am rather concerned for Master Baggins,” Bard admits after a while, “I only saw him during the exchange, and he did not look very well then. I was under the impression he was not involved in the battle?”

Balin purses his lips. The question accidentally forces his hand, and he knows better than to provide details that may later be proven false. “His injuries were not grave, but put severe strain on his mind, I am afraid to say,” Balin replies, because he will not confirm the origin of Bilbo’s injuries, “Which is why he was recommended rest and a degree of quietude.”

Bard frowns. “That is ill indeed. I would have liked to talk to him…”

“Perhaps soon,” Balin replies.

“Personally, I am willing to accept that. When I saw Master Baggins last night I thought he needed rest, and much of it,” Bard replies, “However, here I am not only representing my own interests. And as Master Baggins is the one to guarantee peace, I feel keeping him hidden may not be in our best interests. Already there are some ugly rumors brewing.”

Balin does not sigh. He has expected this – only had hoped for some more time. The moment they handed Bilbo the Arkenstone he has become a player on this board, and can no longer recuperate in quietude. They need him back out; no matter if he is ready or not. Balin knows this as a politician, but as a friend he can’t help feeling appalled. He knows Bilbo will be able to play his part, to fulfill all expectations, yet he does dare to think what it may cost him.

“I understand,” he tells Bard, “What kind of rumors are you speaking about?”

“Nothing fixed yet,” Bard says, “There is some speculation on whether he is truly a neutral party, but as many of my men have witnessed what happened on the parapets, they are willing to put some trust in him.”

At least somebody does, Balin thinks, recalling the dwarven warriors from Dain’s host that keep muttering words like thief and traitor.

***

Thorin stares at the letters in front of him, yet they fail to make sense. Their script is but blurry lines and incomprehensible symbols, while his minds spirals into darker and darker spaces. His heart is pounding and no matter how desperately he turns the situation over, there is no way out of it.

This will not be won with honesty and trust. The gold has not only blurred his own priorities; the dragon’s inheritance is doing its best to doom all of them. Thranduil, so concerned over his share, is no different. Neither is Bard, though he may need the gold to rebuild Dale.

He has not set foot into Erebor’s treasury since that horrible morning, and yet the memory is of the glittering gold still exudes a subtle magic. One reveals its darkness the moment Thorin recalls the chest that almost became a coffin.

He swallows. Outside, life goes on. The tension is low, hard to notice currently, yet it will not take much for the situation to boil over. And there is little he can do.

(Thorin would pay Bard and Thranduil, if he did not have to fear Dain questioning his sanity. Now that he is willing, he can’t – and he wants to cry for it all has become so twisted).

There is one thing, however, he can do.

It may not be a particularly good idea, he thinks as his feet carry him outside. Gandalf had bidden him to stay away, and he recalls the panicked look in Bilbo’s eyes all too well. Dwalin’s glare, and Balin’s disappointment. Kili’s horror and Fili’s unhappiness.

But a little bit of honesty among all this madness, he hopes, will help.

Nobody is guarding the entrance to Bilbo’s tent which is odd, but not unwelcome. Thorin announces himself before he enters, pulling aside the fabric with sweat-covered palms. His heart is pounding madly, and does not think he has ever been so afraid.

Gandalf glares at him, calls out a sharp “What do you want?” and steps forward to ward Thorin back. Dwalin does his best to block him from view, and Thorin does not catch what is said.

“Did I not tell you to wait?” Gandalf asks, “Do you want to cause further harm? Do you…”

“Gandalf!” a hoarse voice cries out, and the wizard falls silent. With a sigh he straightens and lets Thorin step past.

Bilbo is as white as the sheets he rests upon and trembling all over. Thorin swallows – this is what he caused, this is the consequence of his action. This is his fault.

Dwalin shifts on his feet, the dark expression on his face spurring Thorin into action.

He sinks to his knees, still far, far away from the cot.

“Master Baggins…” Thorin sets out, “I… there are no words to apologize for what I did. If I could, I would make it undone, take back every unkind word I ever said to you. I would…”

Bilbo makes an odd, choked sound in his throat and Thorin falls silent. He feels dizzy, weak, while Bilbo visibly pulls himself together; pupils blown large and his hair sticks to his forehead from sweat.

“No,” he cries, “No. You don’t get to … to … explain and walk from this. You don’t. No. I’m not going to forgive this.”

Thorin clenches his fists. His eyes burn, and his heart hurts much worse than any injury he recalls. “I’m not asking you to …”

“Do you expect me to forgive you? This? Forgive you this when I… look at me, I can’t even talk about it or think it,” the words are accompanied by a harsh, hysterical laugh, “Do you even know what you’ve done?”

Bilbo is shouting now, but everybody else is frozen stiff. Abruptly he pushes himself forward, screaming into Thorin’s direction.

“You have no idea! Look at what you have done to me! What you’ve reduced me to! I can’t even speak to you without having to fear my own memories! I can’t sleep – and if I ever get home I’ll be afraid of my own closet!” Bilbo voice hitches, but he carries on, forcing the words out, “When somebody walks up to me I get scared half to death if I don’t faint on the spot – how am I supposed to even go back like this?”

Thorin trembles. “I did not mean for this to happen,” sounds so shallow he does not even dare to utter the words.

“But I can’t go back, can I?” Bilbo adds, acidly, “I can’t, not until you and Thranduil and Bard have settled that childish feud. Until then they’ll all hound my steps and watch my every move and not let me breathe and I can’t even dare thinking of going home. Or speak my mind. Or go out on my own. And, oh yes, I can’t tell anyone what happened either.”

Hysteria colors Bilbo’s voice, but the words cut through Thorin like knifes. “Perhaps to you that piece of rock is worth it, but don’t come to me explaining things, Thorin Oakenshield. Not when you don’t even begin to understand what you did – leaving me in that box, and now… now expecting me to hold onto that accursed stone for you, to dance to your tune. You could’ve left me in there, and I’d have the same amount of freedom, minus being hounded by your cousin’s advisors. Really, if you’d just let go on…”

“Bilbo!” Gandalf shouts, interrupting the mad stream of words.

The hobbit falls silent, swaying and panting. Thorin can’t breathe, a sob stuck in his throat. Bilbo may not have completed his sentence, but he knows the end anyway – “why did you not just kill me? I would have been gladder for it”.

Apparently not even Gandalf knew how deep the damage runs, as he looks shaken. “Bilbo,” he repeats, calmer now, “Settle down. The healers cautioned you against letting yourself grow this upset, I believe. Perhaps you…”

Bilbo shakes his head, and the wizard falls silent. With his head bowed, Thorin awaits further words. In the back of his mind he recalls the first evaluations; hears the healer saying “I don’t like how weak his pulse is”.

And Bilbo does look as if it would not take much to make him shatter completely, now.

“Leave me, please,” he says, eventually, “You too, Gandalf. You expect me to play my part, and I will do so, but you know I don’t want to. You know I want nothing more than to go home – why could you not have taken the Arkenstone? Why did you not stop Thorin then? You knew what was happening.”

Thorin feels the ground drop away. He has not thought about the wizard’s part in this – but now, he can’t help but wonder how much the wizard did know about the gold-sickness?

Gandalf appears speechless, though he recovers after a beat. “You know I did not mean you any harm, Bilbo. I never have, and had I known what…”

But Bilbo shakes his head. “Don’t, Gandalf,” he says, “You too, Thorin. Don’t … apologize for things you would not have done differently anyhow. Just … just leave me some peace tonight. I’ll play my part, but tonight I’d rather be alone.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin thinks on what he has done - and eventually, something has to give. Much to everyone's horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter, but I felt that was the place to stop?   
> Warnings for this chapter: claustrophobic imagery, and angst, angst, angst.

Thorin spends the evening in a trance.

Bilbo’s words won’t stop echoing in his mind. Over and over again it repeats: his fingers clenching around the soft flesh of Bilbo’s throat, the lifeless body they pulled from the chest and a pale, shaken hobbit telling him that he doesn’t even begin to understand what he did.

Thorin fears he is right.

As much as he regrets his actions, he only understands that he cannot apologize, because apologizing suggests earning forgiveness, and there can be not forgiveness for what he did. It doesn’t even matter what Gandalf could have done, because in the end, it was Thorin, whose hands dragged Bilbo over the parapets and into the chest.

It doesn’t matter that he was out of his mind, either. (This only means Bilbo’s final words were true. Under the spell of the gold-sickness, Thorin would not have acted differently).

His gaze keeps going out of focus – he has long since given on reading the correspondence piled high on his desk.  The lack of rest and food has rendered him beyond exhausted; and somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes this.

Yet on the forefront there is only Bilbo and his own growing desperation. He cannot undo what has been done, he cannot do anymore to help. If it was desired, he would make a public apology, offer his own head – but the first is not desired, and the second not possible.

How can he atone for what he did? How can he even begin to do so when Bilbo grows pale the moment he sees Thorin? When his friends glare at him, and everybody else expects him to be a just and upright ruler?

There is much clouding his mind, and when Thorin gets to his feet, he does not look where he is going. Night has fallen, and the wind carries the faint echoes of more than one drinking song. The smell of food does no longer turn his stomach, but he feels no hunger, either.

Winter will come soon, though tonight the air is mild. It will be winter and then they’ll be dependent on Laketown and Mirkwood and Dain for food. Paying for these will not be a problem from Erebor’s covers, yet his hold on the mountain is far less certain than when Smaug had dwelt within it.

His feet take him uphill, over ancient, damaged staircases and past the remains of the carved guardian statues. Bifur and Dori greet him, yet Thorin does not hear it. Once again, the images rise in his mind. 

He does not know how to atone. How can he, when he barely understands what he has done?

***

Perhaps it is because Dori rarely ever raises his voice that it carries. The night has grown late when Dori approaches Dwalin who is guarding a familiar tent.  His step is hurried, his demeanor urgent.

“I was looking for your brother,” he says, gasping for breath, “Thorin … Thorin went into the mountain. To the crypts…”

He has to take another gulp of air and misses how Dwalin’s fingers tighten around the grip of his axe. “He asked, no, he ordered Bifur to seal him in one of the coffins.”

Dwalin curses loudly.

“He’s stayed with him,” Dori hurries to add, “Made sure he got some air and let me know as soon as possible. But it’s … Dwalin, that’s madness. You have to talk him out of it! You or your brother, you’re the only ones Thorin will listen to!”

He does not say that Thorin may very well listen to his nephews. They would both rather keep them away from this new disaster.    

***

The princes remain asleep, yet Bilbo, for whom sleep has become an elusive commodity, is not. If he finds sleep, nightmares will come, so sometimes it is just enough to rest his eyes and let his mind drift away to better places. The soft lull of drinking songs and chatter from the outside helps –

Only tonight, the voices are familiar and there is no joy in the words.

And when he hears of what Thorin has done, Bilbo feels his own heart crumble.

***

For long, precious moments Bilbo remains on his cot, eyes fixed upon the canopy above. His thoughts are racing, and his heart is pounding too loud and too fast. He cannot say how he feels, and now he does not even know how to feel.

If those horrible words are true…

If Thorin has really sealed himself in the crypts…

Memories of suffocating darkness rise again, freezing and terrible, threatening to blank Bilbo’s mind completely. His body trembles, and he bites down on his lip. Forces the memories away and rises.

Does he go?

Does he stay, try to sleep and pretend he did not hear what he was not supposed to hear?

I can’t, is what Bilbo then realizes. And knowing that this may not be for the better, that this may cause further harm, he slips on his ring and sneaks from his tent.

The camp lies silent. From afar echoes the sound of laughter and singing and the wind carries the smell of roasted meat. Bilbo feels a faint spark of hunger, but it’s more a memory of better days – of roasted meat eaten under the Shire’s Party Tree on the long evenings in late summer – than actual hunger. He has not been hungry in a very, very long time.

Few are about in this part of the camp, though, and Bilbo might have passed unnoticed even without his ring. But as his face is known – as he is a public figure in this as the one to possess the Arkenstone – he cannot move openly.

The ring truly is an unexpected blessing.

He can’t see anybody else making their way uphill towards Erebor’s gate, and wonders how much time he spent lost in his own head. A cold shiver runs down his spine, but in the blurry darkness it is difficult to recognize the familiar shapes of Erebor’s gate.

Instead of thinking on what happened the last time he entered the mountain – Bilbo takes a deep breath and hastens his steps. He only allows himself a short wish of being able to exit again, as soon as possible.

Then he is inside.

The grand hall lies silent and the cold air makes Bilbo shiver. A breeze gusts over his arms, like the ghost of hands wrapping around them, and his shoulder twinges.

The crypts, Bilbo reminds himself.

At least those are not in the same direction as the treasury, Bilbo thinks to himself. It does not make descending deeper into the mountain any more comfortable. If he was cold moments ago, he is now drenched in cold sweat, his breath coming in short gasps.

Dizziness forces him to slow his steps, and he bites on his lip until he can feel the warm tang of copper. This binds him to the then and now better than the dark and blurry outlines around him do – and he can’t help himself when he starts to feel that the walls are closing in.

With a shudder he pushes himself forward, deeper and deeper down the winding staircases. The glow of gold and emerald fades to more solemn hues, and the sprawling halls are replaced by finely carved corridors.

The path down to the crypts survived Smaug without damage. Still, statues cut from stone guard the path, foreboding and watchful. Bilbo knows little of dwarven practices surrounding their dead –but he knows of the old tombs just on the other side of the Old Forest.

And in places like this, where the silence grows to loud and in the darkness even statues seem to move, he can’t help but remember the old legends. Perhaps because of that – because the fear of ancient witch kings and their magic is different from the memories that beleaguer his heart – he manages his way along the corridors, until he spies a glimmer of light.

Right between to guarding statues one door is open, and Bilbo can hear Bifur’s voice. He casts one last glance down the corridor, the long line of statues – doors and their graves – vanishing into darkness, and shudders.

The chamber is unfinished, parts of the walls decorated, others not. There’s a large stone coffin, but it has not been completely sealed.

And Bilbo can’t help the gasp that falls from his lips.

***

Unbeknown to Bilbo, Dwalin and Dori encountered another kind of difficulties. When they approached Balin’s tent, they found him sharing wine with Dain, involved in a leisure discussion – or at least the kind of leisure in which skilled politicians and manipulators discuss.

“You’re needed,” Dwalin tells his brother after having observed the customs for greeting Dain.

Balin reads the urgency from his eyes, “Can I send somebody else in my stead?”

Dwalin shakes his head.

Dain raises both hands. “I will not keep you from any urgent business,” he says, jovially, “But do tell me if I can be of any assistance.”

Dori, even less familiar than Dwalin and Balin with the other King, stiffens. He wets his lip; then stops himself – Dwalin and Balin will know how to handle this.

Dwalin snorts, and Balin rises from his chair with a long-suffering sigh. “While it seems I won’t sleep as soon as I’d like to, there is no need for you to remain up as well,” he tells Dain.

“I wouldn’t mind sacrificing a few hours if there’s an emergency,” Dain replies, and as far as Dori can tell he is honest in this. “And I can always nod off for a few moments during negotiations. The advantage of having overenthusiastic advisors.”

It draws a grin from Balin, though he declines Dain’s offer again.

“Very well,” Dain tells them, as he gathers his coat to leave, “But don’t hesitate to send for me, no matter what the time – we’re family. And in all honesty, I’m worried – even recovered, the destruction within Erebor must be devastating – I can’t imagine how it must be for you, remembering what happened that day and standing here now.”

***

Bifur has spent much of the night attempting to talk sense into Thorin. Yet the King has failed to reply, other than repeatedly asking and ordering Bifur to seal the coffin. That is when they both fell silent, with the coffin’s lid not yet completely shut, and Bifur listening to Thorin breathing.

(And hoping Dori will be quick to fetch support).

Instead he first hears a gasp, and only then the soft padding of footsteps. Off all possibilities, it is Bilbo Baggins who stumbles into the crypt; chalky and unsteady. Sweat makes the long locks stick to his forehead, and in the dim light he appears almost wraith-like.

Bifur moves toward him, but Bilbo doesn’t even seem to notice him. Instead the hobbit moves forward, eyes transfixed by the unfinished coffin.

“Tho…” his voice catches, and Bifur watches as Bilbo visibly pushes himself on, “Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield!”

The raised voice trembles, and Bifur thinks he can’t hear Thorin breath – waiting with baited breath, like he himself does? Part of him longs to step forward and interfere before Bilbo harms himself further.

***

“What… just what do you think you are doing?” Bilbo asks and there’s an odd note between despondency and fear in his voice. His chest is tight, and the world spins too fast. Dimly he’s aware of Bifur’s presence, but the room shrinks to him and that marble coffin.

“What is this supposed to be? What do you think will happen?! Why are you doing this?!” Bilbo shouts, and he can’t help it if his voice sounds hysteric, “This doesn’t make sense! This doesn’t… doesn’t solve anything! Where is this even supposed to help?”

His heart is pounding so loud he barely hears his own voice anymore. “Or do you think this is a fun experience? Are you doing this to satisfy some strange urge? Something to reconnect with that marvelous hoard of yours? Is there any gold in there, Thorin? Any other rare gemstones that are worth more than life itself?”

Maybe he is being cruel. He doesn’t know anymore. Can’t tell wrong from right, can’t even tell where the floor ends and the walls begin. The edges of his vision are tinged in darkness, and he might be swaying on his feet.

Yet the words won’t stop. “Do you do this to mock me? To show the world how this is nothing to be, to be feared? Belittle me further? I can’t think of any other reason, because if you think this will, will, will earn you forgiveness or anything – it won’t! Not if you spent a thousand years buried underneath dead stone will I forgive you! Maybe this is all laughable to you, but I am not going to forgive you! I will never ….”

And before Bilbo can complete that sentence, the world that has already grown dark vanishes completely.

***

Balin, his brother and Dwalin encounter a scene of desolation.

It is not Moria, and yet Balin can’t help the lurch his heart fives. Bifur is trying his hardest to push aside the heavy marble plate covering the sole coffin – and yet the entire room is utterly silent. Bifur only turns when he hears them enter, expression urgent and frightened.

“You need to-“ he starts, but Dwalin’s shout interrupts them. “What is he doing here?”

Balin and Dori turn – there, almost hidden against the wall, wrapped in Bifur’s overcoat, rests the small form of a hobbit. Balin feels his stomach drop, while Dori hurries over. His head starts whirring, and Bifur’s answer can barely come fast enough.

“He showed up, just like that, not long ago,” Bifur says, “He was upset, unwell, I think, and then started to shout at Thorin. I tried to calm him down, but I don’t think he heard me, and then he fainted.”

“He’s just unconscious,” Dori confirms from where is kneeling over Bilbo.

“I don’t know what he said,” Bifur says, “But he was shouting at Thorin – and we need to get him out.”

Balin realizes that Bifur has not moved from his station. And then, that hearing their every word, buried underneath the heavy marble, lies Thorin. Who chose this himself, for reasons Balin is afraid to examine yet (he fears he may understand).

“Let’s do that,” Dwalin agrees and steps past Balin.

He can only watch as Bifur and his brother employ all their strength to move the heavy piece. His own mind is ablaze and spinning. There’s no answer to be found here, no indication as to why Thorin picked this – as a form of punishment. Self-imposed punishment, Balin thinks, and yet Thorin must have known that this is not conductive. Erebor is in need of a strong leader, not…

Balin stops himself. He has known Thorin for so long – perhaps he himself has become blind – Thorin has been looking for a way to atone for so long already.

“Thorin,” Dwalin calls out, and he’s already pulling their King from his coffin.

Thorin follows without resistance, but neither does he say a word. Or react at all. His face is horribly empty, and Balin can’t help the fear spreading through his chest. As appalled as Thorin’s actions have left him, seeing a once dear friend rendered like this is beyond terrifying.

It shouldn’t be like this.

No matter how angry he was. No matter how foolish Thorin’s action may have been – this is not the outcome Balin wanted to see.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

“Come on,” Dwalin coaxes, and Balin can’t help but admire his brother for keeping his voice so steady, “Enough for tonight. Let’s get you and Master Baggins back to your tents.”

Thorin’s head perks up as he follows the direction Dwalin indicated. Without making a sound, he detaches himself from Dwalin, and under everyone’s watchful gaze makes his way to Bilbo’s side, stumbling slightly.

There, Thorin sinks to his knees, head bowed. With baited breath, Balin takes a step forward, then hesitates.

Thorin does not move further, and Bilbo remains unconscious.

“I never meant for this to happen,” Thorin mumbles, “And if I could undo it, I would do so in a heartbeat. If I could change this, I would. But now I …“

Balin presses his lips together. He can’t recall Thorin ever this despondent, ever this undone – and it breaks his heart when Thorin hangs his head and finishes his sentence.

“I just don’t know what to do.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company deals with the fallout of Thorin's breakdown. Fili and Kili have a heart to heart talk, Bilbo visits the library and winter is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody for reading! ^__^
> 
> (No warnings for this chapter. Drama, angst - but that's about it).

Balin does not attempt to find any sleep that night. After he and Dwalin have hustled Thorin back into his own tent – and he hopes nobody watched Thorin’s face to0 closely – he’ll need to prepare a story for the eventuality, however, and prepare the company.

And he wishes he could stop doing this. Making up lies and tales and forcing everybody to play along, even when he knows this hurts his friends.

Until the situation is more stable, he tells himself.

Tonight, though, he has to question how long Thorin will hold up under the pressure. And how much of this collapse is his own fault.

With a sigh, Balin sits down in a chair and stares at the document resting on the table. Something concerning the payment of guards – the sum is far too high, but that doesn’t matter right now. For a moment Balin’s eyes slide shut and he sees them.

Thorin, pale and exhausted, numbly agreeing to everything he is told. The light that was always there in the King’s eyes – the one that motivated him from the moment Erebor first fell – has vanished. Balin’s chest aches. He hated seeing the terror in Bilbo’s eyes, but seeing Thorin dead in all but body makes him aware that this is not what he has wished for, either.

And for Thorin to pick a tomb…

It was not an attempt at suicide, this Balin is certain off. It was, probably, a horribly misguided attempt at seeking punishment for his actions. Actions that cannot be talked about, because the political landscape around them does not allow it.

What it also did was remind Balin of his friendship.

Before everything happened, Thorin was one of his closest friends. One who Thorin would go to seeking counsel – and in this, Balin has failed. It’s not as if he had not been aware of the temptation of the gold.

It is not as if he hadn’t been enraged himself at Bilbo stealing the Arkenstone.

Merely being in the position of not being a leader had saved him from airing his own anger that day. He does not know what, but he doubts he would have had nicer words for their hobbit.

The gold had enthralled them all, but when the sickness is mentioned all look at Thorin. Without offering help. And for all the horrors Thorin has seen, for the grief he has himself caused, he still has a gentle soul.

***

Bilbo comes awake abruptly, though he does not know why. His heart is pounding and he takes a moment to regain his bearings.

He is back in his tent, which is surprising, because last he remembers being elsewhere – and the floodgates open. With a jolt the memories return and Bilbo’s shoulders slump. So much for thinking he’s improving – what he recalls of last night is blurred by panic and hysteria.

It seems like a nightmare, now, that he hears the sounds of life from the outside. For Thorin to have…

Bilbo cuts off his own thoughts. Not because of the lingering darkness – he still dares not let his mind wander into that territory, too afraid of that it might shatter his uncertain hold on his sanity and composure – but because he understands. Without even trying to, he abruptly realizes he understands why Thorin committed this foolishness.

Bilbo knows that Thorin perhaps desires to serve punishment in order to earn forgiveness from Bilbo, his friends and himself. And just for that sake Bilbo would play along, because no matter if he can’t bring himself to trust Thorin or be near him, he doesn’t want him isolated and unhappy. He understands that the curse of dragon-sickness dictated much of Thorin’s actions, though that does not make them easier to bear.

The scars the claustrophobic darkness carved into Bilbo’s own heart won’t be healed by apology or punishment, after all.

But it’s not a matter of his heart any longer.

They are no longer a company of thirteen. Where Thorin is concerned, his kingdom is to consider. A kingdom Bilbo has fought for as well.

And one he will continue fighting for, Bilbo resolves with a resigned smile on his lips.

***

“So, what was your emergency last night?” Dain asks and falls into step next to Balin as they make their way to the council tent, “I hope it could be resolved quite fast – Dwalin did look rather concerned.”

Naturally, due to their familiarity Dain is more than capable of reading Dwalin’s expression.

“Not as quickly as I hoped, but the affair was settled,” Balin replies. It’s not an outright lie – they got Thorin out of his self-imposed punishment. Though he does not know what mindset it has left the king in.

“Well, that’s good, then,” Dain says cheerfully, “And my cousin will be absent today? At least that’s what I heard.”

Balin wonders just where Dain heard this from. But he has men guarding about every tent in the camp, and those not under his command can easily be bought off. He just has to hope Dain did not yet find out the details.

“Yes, Thorin is resting today,” Balin says, “I believe it’s rather well after everything.”

“Indeed. I heard the journey to the mountain was everything but easy, and even after the dragon perished the troubles continued,” Dain says, “One day you must tell me of your adventures. I’m hearing a lot of interesting stories and I never quite know what to believe – did you really almost get eaten by trolls?”

The spark of curiosity in Dain’s eyes is honest. Balin manages a flat smile. “We did. Though I believe Ori has a rather reliable account, in case you are interested.”

Dain chuckles. “Once everything is settled, there’s nothing I’d rather like to do. I believe it would make for a lovely reading on our way back home.”

***

When Gandalf walks up to Thorin’s tent – he has not seen the King all morning and he would like to have a word before the daily council meeting begins – he finds the entry guarded by Bifur. And no matter what he says, he finds the dwarf unwilling to let him pass.

Before Gandalf can wonder about the abrupt change in behavior, Dori steps up and explains that Thorin took ill and will not be seeing visitors – not even wizards – today.

And no matter what Gandalf says, he is denied.

It makes him uneasy, because he can guess that something is going on. Bifur’s stance is almost accusing, and Dori’s expression is flat. Both their eyes betray a deeper grief, something that was not there the last time Gandalf saw them.

But they do not tell him why, and he does not know how to ask.

So eventually he turns to visit Bilbo – he has not stopped by after his last visit, simply because he was too busy. Though now he thinks he ought to have come by sooner – the hobbit may have shouted at him, but his accusations were not unfounded.

Gandalf’s heart grows heavy. Indeed, he had been aware of the weakness that plagued Durin’s line. And he had been standing there when Thorin had dragged Bilbo away – why did he not think to act back then?

He does not like to admit it, but he could have avoided what happened to Bilbo. And the haunted look that now greets him from Bilbo’s eyes will forever remind him of that failure.

This morning, though, the horror in Bilbo’s eyes is muted. The hobbit is up, though he does not look as if he slept well. He has grown thin, Gandalf realizes, and he’ll probably need to start watching him closely – pneumonia and grief have already taken Bilbo’s mother from the world before her time; he does not want to watch her son succumb to the same fate.

“Gandalf,” the hobbit greets him with an exhausted smile, and after they have exchanged their pleasantries, he says, “I thought about that evening, and I do probably owe you an apology. You … could not have known what Thorin was about to do.”

He visibly struggles with the words, and Gandalf wants to tell him that he needs no apology. Least of all from Bilbo, who is only here because one wizard once deemed it a good idea.

“However,” Bilbo directs a heart-wrenching look at Gandalf, “You do know about the gold-sickness, don’t you?”

With a heavy sigh, Gandalf nods. “I knew, and I apologize. Had I known what it would cause, I would have never allowed for this to happen. I did not mean to …”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Can you tell me about it?” he asks, “The sickness? I would… I would like to understand why Thorin acted the way he did.”

And seeing the honest wish to understand in Bilbo’s eyes, Gandalf has to clamp down on the urge to embrace the hobbit.

“Is it like the forgetfulness the old Missus Proudfoot suffers?” he asks, “She always forgets the names of her grandchildren…”

“Not quite,” Gandalf replies and can’t help the faint smile, “But it is also not entirely dissimilar. All dwarves, as you probably know, feel the call of the gold, so to say. Most men do as well, and even some elves can get enraptured. But it has always been rather peculiar in the line of Durin – Thorin’s grandfather suffered heavily from it, and I believe it is what drove his father into madness.”

“Some hobbits are greedy as well,” Bilbo says, “But this is different from what I saw. That was no normal greed.”

“Indeed not,” Gandalf replies, “And for that reason the sickness is also known as dragon-sickness. Because it makes those under its spell act like a dragon is wont to – fixate entirely on gold.”

“Can they recover from it?” Bilbo asks, and even though he tries not to let it show, Gandalf senses the barely suppressed hope behind this question.

“I do not know,” he replies honestly, “Though I have seen it held in check. But perhaps you ought to ask a dwarf on that matter – or I could imagine that there might be a number of books in Erebor’s library on the subject.” 

***

 “Have any of you seen the King today?” Ori asks, poking his head into the princes’ tent, “One of Bard’s men is asking for him.”

Fili and Kili shake their heads simultaneously. They have eschewed all contact with their uncle but for the sake of keeping up a public façade. The last thing Fili recalls honestly telling their uncle is “to leave” – and while it felt justified then, he can’t deny a sharp pain in his heart.

“Ah well, I’ll just ask Dwalin,” Ori says and is gone before either of them can inquire for further news. Fili is uneasy – he’d like to know what is happening, but due to his healing leg, he is under strict instructions not to leave the tent.

The silence that falls between them is tense. Until Kili gets up and says he’ll look and find out what is going on. Fili would like nothing better than to accompany him – he was always good at picking up the details his brother missed – yet the dull ache that still pounds through his leg warns him away.

***

Negotiations that day make no progress at all. Dain’s advisors are not willing to rely on Balin to speak for the absent King, Thranduil barely even participates in the discussion – and if then it is to decline a suggestion, and Bard is rather more concerned about Thorin’s health than the state of affairs. His advisors make a short attempt at tricking Balin into making promises, but he is much too familiar with these tricks to fall for them.

The only thing they all can agree on is to postpone negotiations for another day by the time lunch rolls around.

With a heavy heart, Balin goes to Thorin’s tent. He knows he should not ask Thorin to play his part again, not after what happened last night – but he sees no other solution. Like Bilbo, Thorin may have to sacrifice his recovery to politics.

“Is Thorin awake?” he asks Dori who has taken up position in front of the tent. 

The other dwarf shakes his head. “No, and he won’t be woken – Oin was by earlier, and deemed it best for him to sleep. He used one of his teas.”

Balin swallows – Oin does not use these teas lightly. “Were you there when he was awake? How is Thorin?”

Dori purses his lips. “Unwell. Not different from last night, and Oin was uncertain when he will recover.”

“Thank you,” he tells Dori, “Please tell me if there’s any change.”

This is not good, Balin thinks to himself. Without Thorin negotiations will hardly progress – and yet if Oin cannot give them a fixed date, they will have to deal. 

And that is without mentioning the personal ties he wishes to repair. Even though he already knows those may have to wait – Erebor takes precedence over all: Bilbo’s health, Thorin’s health, and a lifelong friendship.

By now he cannot allow himself to doubt that the reclaimed kingdom is worth the price they’re all paying.

***

“Uncle is unwell,” is the news Kili returns with, “And negotiations have been stopped at lunch today.”

“Do you know why?” Fili asks immediately, “And what happened to uncle.”

His brother shrugs and peels off his outer coat. By now it has become cold outside, though the inside of their tent is kept warm by a well-stroked fire.

“Nobody would say,” Kili answers to both questions, “I think they aren’t making any headway with negotiations – I ran into one of Dain’s advisors and he asked if you couldn’t speak for uncle tomorrow – they all appear rather frustrated.”

Fili hums in response. Speak for Thorin? He does not feel up to it, but he did not feel up for the battle either. Only in hindsight he realizes how young he and his brother are to be involved in this – and he’d rather avoid becoming even more of a pawn than he already is.

“I told him that was unlikely due to your injury,” Kili continues, “Then he kept badgering me, first about uncle and then about Bilbo. What happened to them and why they were so unwell… Well, I told him that unlike many others we did have a rather exhausting journey to the mountain and had to deal with the dragon – we didn’t come here with an armed host carrying provisions and everything. I think that shut him up.”

“It ought to. I doubt any of them would have dared to confront a dragon,” Fili says. He has – luckily – rarely been in close contact with Dain’s advisors. Yet what he hears of them he does not like.

“I sometimes think they’ll faint the moment I mention Smaug,” Kili says with a shake of his head.

“Then we should make certain to mention him as often as possible,” Fili suggests. It’s an underhand move, considering how much grief Smaug brought down onto his own family – but he feels it’s only fair in face of the charade Dain’s advisors are putting up. “But you said something about uncle being unwell?”

 He is angry, though that is no reason not to be concerned.

“Dori told me so – he and Bifur wouldn’t even let me in,” Kili says, “They said Oin put him to sleep – that uncle more or less worked himself to the ground. He also said … he also said that we should be nice the next time we saw him.”

Fili blinks. “Why--?”

“I don’t know,” Kili responds unhappily, “Dori wouldn’t tell me. Just that uncle is unwell and it may take him some time to recover – and we could perhaps help by just being supportive.”

There’s a lot of gaping holes in that story. Kili does not have the answers, and Fili hardly knows how to provide them. The only explanation is mind can come up with is that Thorin suffered from a sort of breakdown.

But how that would have occurred, he cannot imagine. 

Kili shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “I don’t know what to make of it,” he admits, “But Fili, I’m worried. I mean, I know he did something horrible. But he’s still our uncle.”

And Fili knows what he means, for there are too many fond memories for him, too. Memories that make this outcome all the harder to swallow. Were all the times Thorin made them laugh a lie? Should he forget about all the times Thorin came back late with food or a present? Can he ignore the past?

In his heart Fili knows he will love Thorin, no matter what. Even if it is only the memory left to love – but he is not quite willing to give up yet.

***

Visiting Erebor’s library, Bilbo quickly realizes, was not a good idea. Though the presence of the books always has calmed him, the dimly lit caverns of the kingdom do not.

Stepping past the stone statues at Erebor’s entrance leaves him queasy. He tells himself he managed last night – and intentionally does not recall how besides himself he was at that time. And how everything that happened then feels like a nightmare now.

Worried eyes trace his footsteps, and Dwalin’s silent presence urges Bilbo to carry on. He has been weak for so long, or so it seems to himself, he does not want to feel so anymore.

And Dwalin, thankfully, does not comment if he’s swaying on his feet as he stumbles along.

When the corridors grow smaller and darker for a moment he thinks he will have to turn back. His heart his pounding rapidly, and the world spins too fast – but it passes, and he pushes himself forward, ignoring the uproar in his head.

If he begins to feel like he did last night, he will not pay it any mind.

Then, finally, finally, he is through the door and within the library. Dwalin promises to be waiting outside – “just call for me” he tells Bilbo, with unveiled concern in his eyes.

Bilbo tries his best to nod an affirmative – he knows he looks pitiable these days. The smell of old paper, though, for a moment at least draws him out of his miserable situation. Erebor’s library is warm – the fires have been lit, and much of the dust has already been cleaned.

Bilbo thinks he could hide here, among the books, and just ignore the outside world.

Until a noise startles him out of his contemplations.

“Master Baggins!” Ori exclaims, hurrying over, while Bilbo leans against a wall to steady himself. His heart is in his throat, and he hates how faint he feels at such a small scare.

“Are you quite alright?” the young dwarf inquires, taking in his pallor.

Bilbo forces a smile. “It’s nothing. Just… just a short spell. I’ll be right as rain in a moment.”

He hopes Ori can’t tell that he still feels dizzy when he pushes himself away from the wall after a moment. To distract him, Bilbo offers his impression of the library – and Ori is happy to tell him that he is currently taking care of it, because it’s better than sitting around useless, and he has always loved books, and who knows if he’ll have the same kind of access once everybody has settled.

“It’s just that Erebor’s library is supposed to be one of the best in all of Middle Earth,” Ori tells him, “Some books only survive here – and some were never allowed to be copied elsewhere. I know that there’s probably a reason in a number of cases, but I’m not after the books outlining Erebor’s mining system – the library stores ancient diaries and letters.”

Bilbo feels himself beginning to warm up in face of Ori’s enthusiasm. It’s with a heavy heart that he eventually asks, “Would you know if there are some accounts on the dragon sickness?”

Instantly, Ori’s face falls. He swallows heavily. “I, I should think so,” he says, “I’ll see if I can find you some…”

Ori makes it three steps, before he turns around. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I’m so sorry, Master Baggins. I read about it, I mean, and still… I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly all of us were mad – I’m sorry we left you all alone then. We should have known better…”

He shakes his head to himself, and Bilbo takes a deep breath.

“I understand that now,” Bilbo tells him. Because if Ori was under the spell as well, he barely remembers it – and it hardly seems to matter, when compared to what Thorin did to him, “Though I would like to understand it a little better. Do you know if there’s a difference between gold-sickness and dragon-sickness?”

Ori gathers himself. “Not today – with no more dragons around, the name is used interchangeably with gold-sickness. Historically though, there used to be a difference. Dragon-sickness was only used among rulers and aristocracy – it often caused them to go mad – I think because they already possessed a lot of riches that exacerbated it. Gold-sickness could strike everyone – you saw how it works.”

Bilbo nods along. He thinks Thorin may have suffered from dragon-sickness – the light in Thorin’s eyes then was not sane. He shivers. “Are there any accounts on it? Or tales on whether those affected could recover?”

“Concerning gold-sickness there are several,” Ori replies, “There’s a volume in Westeron – it’s a history, but it holds a number of these accounts. And on the dragon-sickness… there is no clear account. Though I do recall the wife of Thrain I was afflicted and I believe she did not grow mad.”

Ori is happy to provide the books.

Bilbo does not know if the knowledge makes him feel happier. Gold-sickness, it turns out, can commonly be subdued by family and friends – the books call it “anchoring”. However, the accounts concerning Thrain I’s wife – who remains unnamed in all accounts – are too vague to be comforting. The amount of bloodshed detailed in all other accounts – those that tell of the chaos the dragon-sickness has wrought – and Bilbo knows he should stop reading but can’t – makes him feel faint.

Unsurprisingly, this night he dreams of being murdered by Thorin.

***

The next morning brings a biting, cold wind from the north. Dwarves do not mind the cold, and the elves are prepared, but the men begin to shiver. There is not much activity in camp as Balin leaves his tent shortly after dawn.

His first stop this morning is Thorin’s tent. Not the large royal one that now serves as Bilbo’s quarters, but a smaller, more inconspicuous one near the healers’ tents. Bifur is guarding it – the only clue for any outsider that a member of the company rests inside.

Bifur follows him inside – apparently Oin is asleep for the time being.

As is Thorin.

Even in sleep their King appears stressed. The lines on his face have not smoothed out, and Balin can’t help but sigh. He would have granted Thorin the night’s respite from the depth of his heart – Thorin’s actions may have been gruesome, but it is not as if the rest of their company had not committed their own mistakes.

“Oin said he will probably not wake today,” Bifur informs him.

Balin nods. Another day of failed negotiations – but that cannot be helped. Thorin needs to recover, and Fili is not recovered, or prepared, enough to step up and replace him. Especially not when faced with folk that surrounds Dain or Thranduil’s unblinking stare.

Another sharp gust of wind races through the camp, and tears at the tents and banners. Balin casts a glance to the covered skies overhead. The first snows will come soon.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo tries to move on, while Fili and Kili, too, get drawn even deeper into the political snake pit peace negotiations are turning into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very, very much for comments and kudos and taking the time to read. I do apologize for the delayed update, and would like to promise a more regular schedule for the future - however, life is busy and I don't anticipate things calming down before November. Though then I hope for much time to write.

Bilbo thinks he's improving. He's moving about in his tent, and a part of him desires to step outside. The nightmare is already mostly forgotten, and it may not be sunny or warm, but he'd like to see the sky again, feel the wind on his cheeks (and not think about how long it has been since). However, the noises make him weary. While he may not want to admit to it, the idea of facing so many dwarves leaves him trembling – and so he tells himself to wait a little longer.

He's getting better, so it won't be too long now.

Then he stumbles in his wanderings, and a large hand on his arm stops him from falling.

Instead of being relieved, Bilbo freezes with fear. His heart stops, and his chest won't move, and he can't breathe, can't speak, can't even see the floor in front of him anymore.

He recalls a hand grasping his arm hard, being tugged and pulled, stumbling, the world spinning, and then darkness. The all-consuming, mind-numbing darkness that he has tried so hard to forget. Like a monster it rears up and envelopes all that is on his mind, every thought, every hope, every emotion, until all has turned black and dark and terribly lonely.

When his vision clears, he settled against the cushions on his bed, and a nervous Bofur hovers at his side with Gandalf behind him.

* * *

The council is unhappy at his announcement, though not surprised. Dain is the first to leave the tent, his advisors make to follow him a bit more leisurely. Before Balin manages to leave, Thranduil leans forward. "One small matter though. The Arkenstone was to be removed from our discussions - that was our agreement. Master Baggins to commandeer it until peace has been established."

Balin's stomach rolls uneasily. The air has gone still – the remaining advisors have all halted their actions.

The elf king smiles – but it is not a pretty expression. "However, it has been brought to my attention, that Master Baggins' is exclusively surrounded by dwarves."

"He's ill!" one of Dain's advisors shouts, "He has been ordered to bed rest and few disturbances."

"Indeed," Thranduil replies, "Yet dwarves may seek him out, while my kin is turned away? I fear Master Baggins' impartiality may be endangered under these circumstances - especially, if he is indeed as gravely ill as you suggest."

Balin swallows. Thranduil is right, there is no denying his words. And yet, shielding Bilbo from ambitious council members is the last comfort they can offer their hobbit. Balin does not want to imagine what new pressures this might put on Bilbo, no matter how friendly he was with men and elves.

Bard clears his throat. "I do share this concern – given Master Baggins' condition and position I fear he is particularly vulnerable to influences or coercion. I do not doubt his judgment, but in this position his hand can easily be forced and we have no way of knowing."

With a heavy sigh, Balin nods. "I understand your concern," he tells them, "And I will personally ask Master Baggins if he is willing to receive visitors. I ask you, however, to accept his decision, no matter what it will be."

* * *

Bofur thinks his own smile feels brittle.

And how could it be any different, when his good-intentioned act to keep Bilbo from falling had instead scared the hobbit into unconsciousness? He knows what Thorin has done to their burglar – Bifur had not kept it a secret, though where Bombur raged and Bofur felt like punching their King, their cousin had simply looked at them sadly.

"And what did we do?" he asked them, before he had left.

The call of the gold is one thing Bofur still remembers too clearly, and it makes him shudder even now. On the bed, Bilbo sits upright and chats merrily with Gandalf. Yet Bofur sees how pale his skin is, how thin he has become. There are shadows underneath his eyes, and his smile misses its spark.

Their kingdom has cost more than anybody anticipated. Gandalf included.

The wizard looks at his charge with concern, that does not vanish even when Bilbo apologizes for "words that in the heat of the moment. I hope you know I did not mean them."

Whatever they were, Bofur thinks Gandalf would not mind had Bilbo meant them.

But Bofur sets out to dispel the grief lingering in the air. He is a toymaker – he wants to make people smile. And if light-hearted tales of Bombur's adventures in cooking with men and elves make Bilbo chuckle, then he has done all he came for.

"…and apparently, to men, those mushrooms cause hallucinations. Bombur as quite surprised to find…" Bofur says, and is interrupted by a bell.

"Excuse me," Balin says and enters.

Bofur feels the air change. Gandalf's face darkens, while Bilbo's smile turns resigned. Balin does not look happy either – if rumors are true, he is leading negotiations, and Bofur thinks it has to be a lonely, thankless task.

"The council does not convene today," he announces, and then to Gandalf adds, "Thorin remains asleep."

The wizard nods thoughtfully.

"However," Balin turns to Bilbo, "Thranduil raised the matter that he fears you might be … influenced, being sorely in the company of dwarves. Both he and Bard desire a meeting – though I asked them to prepare for a declination. So it's up to you."

Balin smiles. This is the best version of choice he can offer, Bofur realizes. Bilbo is too central for the negotiations to withdraw and recover, he must at least allow himself to be involved.

Even though everybody can see how it's draining him.

"Well, then I'll see Bard first?" Bilbo laughs.

* * *

On the other side of camp, Kili despairs at Oin.

"Please, just tell me what happened?" he asks, and gestures to the still form of his uncle. Thorin rests quietly on a cot well-covered in furs and warm blankets. But his face is pale and drawn, and even now traces of a frown linger.

"He needs his rest," Oin tells Kili. He had not wanted the lad in here – on the off chance that his distress might register with Thorin, and because it is bound to affect the princes' own recovery.

"Yes, but you put him to sleep!" Kili bites out, accusingly, "I recognize the smell! That's your special tea – why did you give it to uncle? Why did you-"

His voice breaks, and Oin forces a smile. Kili is still so very, very young, and it is terrible that he is familiar with the smell that clings to Oin's special tea. Which he feeds only to those very sick, in pain, or the dying.

"Don't worry so much, lad," Oin tells him with a sigh, "Your uncle is … has exhausted himself. I just want him to sleep for a bit longer."

Kili bites his lip, and his eyes wander back to Thorin's prone form. Conflict shows in his eyes, and Oin wonders how much the young prince knows.

"Will he…?" Kili swallows, "Will he be alright then?"

"As good as new," Oin promises.

"Like before?" Kili bites his lip, and Oin guesses before means a time before the quest. When uncle Thorin was an uncle, and not king.

And Oin cannot turn back time. He will not lie to Kili either. So he settles for the best response he can give, and hopes Thorin – whom he last recalls catatonic and broken, even to Bilbo and his oldest friends – will indeed recover.

"He will certainly try."

* * *

"You look pale, Master Hobbit," Bard says, once Dwalin has allowed him into Bilbo's tent. The hobbit is upright, on a chair behind a desk and looking over a number of documents.

Bilbo grimaces, and tugs the heavy fur coat closer around his shoulders. "Hobbits are not made for battle," he replies evasively, "Nor for drawn-out negotiations, I'm afraid."

"Nobody is made for that," Bard agrees, "And I'm terribly sorry we had to involve you after all."

Bilbo is reminded of the small box placed inconspicuously in a corner of his tent, and his stomach twists. He forces himself to shrug instead. "I brought it upon myself, in a matter."

The conversation drifts to lighter topics for a while. Then Bilbo inquires after Laketown.

"Hardly salvageable," Bard replies with a shake of his head.

Bilbo's eyes widen. "What will you do in winter? I heard you wanted to rebuild Dale, but that will need time, I suppose."

"Indeed it will," Bard says, "As for winter… we'll have to survive. Somehow. It would help a lot if we could trade for food and equipment while the roads are still open."

Bilbo nods. The plea is not really hidden – Bard is telling him that the men need the gold, otherwise they will die. And even if they can trade, it is dubious whether all of them will last through winter. The thought hounds Bilbo all through their conversation.

"Maybe you will join us tomorrow?" Bard asks as he prepares to leave, "I think we could all use somebody with a different view on those matters. Of course, it's dreadfully boring, too."

He smiles and Bilbo's heart goes out to him. Even though he does not want anything more to do with the politics surrounding Erebor. Even if he feels he has done more than his share for this already – but he knows he can help, and he knows the problems Bard speaks of.

"I will think about it," he tells Bard. Though he knows that tomorrow he will be there.

No matter what it will cost him.

* * *

When the entrance to their tent is opened, Fili at first thinks it is Kili. It is lucky that he has not called out in greeting, because the dwarf that enters is unfamiliar and wrapped in thick, bejeweled furs from head to toe.

"My prince," the dwarf bows, "I apologize for disturbing you. I am Fror, son of Nror, and advisor to his highness, King Dain of the Iron Hills."

"And I am honored to meet you," Fili replies, and sits as straight as he can on the bed.

When the dwarf steps closer and the polished metal of his shoes catches the light, Fili feels terribly unsuited to this meeting. His is ripped, his braids not properly done, and he is in bed, still.

"We are all looking forward to your speedy recovery," Fror announces, "Your company seems to have suffered heavily from the recent battle."

"We were rather in the thick of it," Fili replies, "And before that, we did face a dragon."

Fror nods, and then proceeds to engage Fili in the most terrifying bout of small talk he has ever been involved in. With Fror, Fili does not know what is said to garner a reaction, or where the traps are.

He grows increasingly paranoid as Fror continues to ask about his childhood, Thorin and a grandfather Fili cannot remember – eventually he clears his throat.

"Forgive me," he interrupts, "I am afraid I am not good company. My healer has advised me to rest frequently, and, well, I am inclined to believe him."

"I shall leave you to your rest momentarily," Fror replies, "Though I was wondering – might I invite you to join the council sometime? Unfortunately your uncle has taken ill, and it looks unlikely that we will reach an agreement during his absence. As the heir, you could take his place."

Fili can almost see the thoughts lurking behind that deceptively concerned expression – that dwarf aims to manipulate him, believes a young prince to offer no protest where an experienced ruler would do so at once.

So he smiles as nicely as he can (and if it has an edge, Fror does not know him well enough to tell): "As long as my uncle lives I will not take his place or make decisions for him."

* * *

Nighttime brings an unusual visitor. Nori sneaks into Bilbo's tent with all the secrecy of a thief, and only offers a grin when Bilbo inquires as to his reasons.

"There were so many people going in and out of here today, I'm pretty sure each party has their own spies making lists," he says, "Everybody is terribly curious about you."

It's not the kind of news that makes Bilbo feel comfortable.

Nori shrugs, and then cuts straight to the point. "Anyhow, Dain is no bad ruler."

Bilbo blinks. "But he…"

"He did not support the quest, that is true," Nori agrees easily, "But if you think about it, that was a fairly rational decision. I mean, Erebor's defense was wiped out by the dragon, and Dain's host may be strong, but probably not strong enough to take on a dragon."

He shrugs. "Anyhow, I sort of went through camp, and it seems Dain's popular enough with even the little folk at home. Considered rather honorable and reliable…"

Bilbo purses his lips while his pulse speeds up. He wonders at what Nori saying – and then the dwarf abruptly looks at him.

"See, what I am trying to say is – you don't have to play along. Go out and speak your mind; Dain certainly won't make a bad king, and he'll probably honor our contracts, too," Nori leans forward, "You don't have to fight this battle as well."

And then his smile softens. "If you want to go home, go home. You don't owe anybody."

Bilbo's breath catches in his throat. He has to blink because his eyes suddenly burn, and something in his chest unclenches ever so slightly. Perhaps he should…

… go home to his books. His garden. The familiar green hills, the lake and the tree. See the trees bloom in spring, and the fields turn golden in summer.

His heart aches for the familiar scenery.

Yet, he shakes his head. "I'd very much like to," he softly confesses to Nori, "But I won't. I joined you to help you win back your home. I will see it done, too."

* * *

Sleep has become elusive now that the majority of Kili's injuries have healed. Instead, his head keeps going over the last few days, twisting words and their meanings and trying to figure out what he is supposed to do. But all he comes up with is the image of nail-shaped marks on wood, and Bilbo's terrible pallor these days.

The darkness of the tent grows claustrophobic, and Fili's even breathing does nothing to change that. With little hesitation Kili shrugs on his clothes and steps out.

It's cold enough that his breath mists in the air, and the sun barely crests the horizon. But light and cold penetrate the haze dark thoughts have thrown over him, and he gazes over the quiet camp. Not many are about now, and except for Bifur who guards Bilbo's tent no familiar face is in sight.

His eyes are drawn to another tent, and with a clench in his chest he recalls that he still does not know what happened to his uncle.

It's been two days already. Kili bites his lip. He is - angry, disappointed, disgusted, furious, and yet, strangely at the same time he can't help feeling worried. Oin's face was so drawn when he told him, and Balin, too, had seemed so consternated.

All Kili can conjecture is that something has happened. Something that caused these old warriors to forgive Thorin's crimes, and remember their age-old friendship. But Kili does not know what happened, and so he does not know if he should – blindly – follow their lead, or judge the situation according to what he knows for sure.

The emotions bubbling in his chest provide no orientation – half of him wants to be angry, demands of him to be upright – what was done to Bilbo was fundamentally wrong, and it is unthinkable that it should be ignored and forgotten, especially after all Bilbo did for them – and yet.

Yet the other half of his chest wants his uncle back.

"Good morning," a familiar voice calls out and Kili glances up to see Balin approach.

He returns the greeting, and after a short hesitation, asks: "Any news from my uncle?"

Balin sighs. The sun has just risen, but it does not look as if got much rest the last night. Kili frowns to himself – currently they all are relying heavily on the elderly advisor to keep things running. And for all his experience, Balin might need somebody to support him as well.

"He remains asleep – Oin has judged it for the better," Balin tells him, "He might awaken tonight or tomorrow, so we might get some news then."

"That's great," Kili replies, "I still don't know what happened, though. Nobody will tell me anything. And yesterday one of Dain's dwarves visited Fili and asked questions…"

Balin swallows. "That is… well, I suppose that was bound to happen. Dain's advisors dislike taking my work on anything that is not going in their favor."

"But that's … I mean everybody knows you speak for uncle," Kili protests, and for the moment doesn't care that he sounds very young and naïve when he says it.

"But I am not King, and I don't command an army, either," Balin says.

Kili frowns. "Would it help if Fili or I went with you? I mean, we're not skilled at negotiations, but perhaps they'd listen?"

"That idea has some merit," Balin tells him, "But it also holds some dangers. Though if Thorin does not recover, we ought to give it serious thought. For now, I have to be on my way."

Kili nods, and then realizes where Balin is headed. "Why are you going to Bilbo?"

And Balin's face grows weary once more. "He will actively participate in negotiations from now on."

"But it's…." not good for their hobbit, Kili wants to say. With Bilbo's tent so close to Fili's and his, they can hear the nightmares. They now their hobbit is often awake rather than asleep.

"I know," Balin replies over his shoulder, "But it is … inevitable, really."

And then Kili is left standing alone as Balin disappears into the tent. He feels strangely lost. Powerless and impotent. He is a prince, but it seems that others are fighting the battle over his kingdom for him. And Kili would rather do it himself – Erebor is his responsibility, too. But he does not know how.

He only knows that relying on the kindness and goodwill of friends to the point that these sacrifice their own well-being can't be the right answer.

* * *

Council is worse than Bilbo has anticipated. Introductions take a small eternity, and many of Dain's advisors refuse to even acknowledge him before their king does. The whispers of "traitor", "betrayer" and "thief" make even Bard look uncomfortable, and Bilbo feels his smile slipping.

In the back of his head, dark memories arise.

Then Dain ends it by warmly welcoming Bilbo to their round, expressing how glad he is Bilbo could join them and inquiring with much concern over his well-being. Bilbo does not know what to make of it, but his mother's etiquette lessons help him to survive.

Once they start to discuss reconstruction efforts, the air becomes tense.

"Concerning my share," is all Bilbo manages to say before one of Dain's advisors is on his feet.

"Objection!" the dwarf shouts, "With all respect, Master Baggins, you are safekeeping the Arkenstone – your share of the treasure has been forfeited by your own actions!"

"That judgment has been revoked," Balin interrupt sharply.

"That does not change the deed!" the dwarf protests, and Bilbo starts to feel faint. His heart is pounding the way it did up on the battlements when Thorin's wrath first descended upon him.

"I do rather believe it does," Balin calmly states, "As it proves that neither betrayal nor thievery were intended. And Master Baggins was indeed free to use his share at that point."

Dain clears his throat – and, being a king, the two advisors fall silent. "Well, I see no sense in arguing the point when we can just ask Master Baggins himself. Could you perhaps give us an outline of your motivations? As you can see, these may be rather central to our discussion."

Bilbo wants to protest that they shouldn't be, but all eyes are fixed on him. The advisors, even Thranduil and Bard are watching him closely.

So he swallows and pushes down the nausea. "It is as Master Balin suggested. I sought to resolve the conflict without weapons – by providing my own share to compensate for the damages at Laketown and the support provided by King Thranduil. I took the Arkenstone as an object for trade – I never meant for it to serve as payment."

"And were you aware of the value placed upon the Arkenstone by my people?" Dain inquires.

Bilbo hesitates. "Not precisely. It had been spoken of and I recognized it to be especially valuable, but I believe I did not understand the depth of its importance."

He still does not, if he is honest. To him the Arkenstone is a cursed, shiny rock that has caused far too much grief – the rage in Thorin's eyes then makes him shudder to this day. Whatever the Arkenstone may be, Bilbo does not believe its worth justified the battle that was so nearly avoided.

And neither does it justify what Thorin did to him.

"Thank you very much," Dain says, kindly, "That was all I wanted to know – I apologize for recalling any bad memories."

Bilbo nods. Dain sounds honest, but he can't help if the room feels very distant right now. A part of his mind is slipping away – darkness beckons and the edges of his vision and his heart pounds loudly.

He takes a deep breath. And speaks up before any of the other beings present can do.

"What I wanted to say," Bilbo states, and even though he is dizzy, his voice comes out sharp, "Winter is almost upon us. There are three hosts to feed, Laketown is destroyed and Erebor in ruins. We need supplies before the roads close – and while we negotiate the details, I will offer to pay for all needed supplies out of my share."

And the room erupts in chaos.

_**tbc** _


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin wakes, Bilbo has a long and uncomfortable conversation with Thranduil - and somebody else thinks things are not moving in the right direction.

Thorin’s return to consciousness is a slow process. Often he thinks he is almost there – hears snatches of conversation, the draft of cool air against his skin, a trickle of liquid down his throat – but his mind never clears enough to make sense of these impressions, and darkness soon swallows them.

But this time the sensations come together. It is warm, and he is lying on something. There are very few noises around him, so he probably is in a private tent, removed from the rest of camp. His back is slightly sore, as if he had rested on it too long, though his muscles are deeply relaxed – he has been unconscious for a long time, then.

Yet whatever peace this period of rest brought is quick to vanish once his memories grow clear.

He recalls darkness, shouting. Bifur telling him to stop this insanity, somebody running. Harsh words from Dwalin, regret in Balin’s voice, and he thinks at one point there might have been Bilbo screeching at him. Words about forgiveness – but his recollection is blurred. Darkness and guilt in an all-encompassing spiral, that swallowed up everything, until even walking became an exertion.

This vortex of madness is gone, now. And while Thorin is glad for it, he does not feel better. So much has gone wrong – and is this latest episode not proof how unstable he has become? Perhaps he should indeed abdicate – Erebor needs a reliable ruler.

Not one that will succumb to …

“Thorin,” a voice breaks through the haze clouding his mind, and he turns his head. Oin’s familiar face swims into view – the healer looks tired, and, strangely, a bit exasperated.

“Thorin,” he calls again, “Are you with us?”

“Y…” his mouth is dry, and Thorin has to swallow before his tongue works, and even then it is sluggish, “Yes.”

“Oh, thank Mahal,” Oin grouches, “Now, what is the last thing you remember?”

Nothing that Thorin wants to mention. He’d rather forget those dreadful hours before darkness enveloped it all – he had not been himself then, had not even been in his right mind. It’s clear to him now, but he still recalls the muddled, helpless feeling better than he wants to.

“From your expression you seem to remember quite well, but I need you to confirm it,” Oin says.

“The … crypts. I was in the crypts,” Thorin manages. His heart pounds loudly.

“And completely out of your mind, but I think you see that now,” Oin adds, “Well, at least you seem to be in your right mind, now. How are you feeling?”

His body is numb, but “there’s no pain”. Thorin blinks, “Though I’m still tired.”

“That’s not surprising,” Oin replies, “You did run yourself into the ground. I’ve seen many do that, but neither quite as you did. It will take you time to recover.”

Erebor. His nephews.

Thorin makes to sit up, his nerves on fire, but his muscles fail to comply. With a groan he sinks back into the pillow while Oin frowns.

“I just said it will take you time,” he says.

Thorin’s fingers twitch. There is so much to do, so many responsibilities he can’t shirk – not with what he already did, not with the dozens of mistakes he already committed – he can’t just lie here and …

“Calm down,” Oin tells him, “Nothing has happened.”

“Who is…” Thorin asks, his heart in his throat. He prays his poor nephews will not have been drafted to pick up where he failed – they need to heal first.

“Balin,” Oin replies, “He’s keeping everybody hanging, and is quite clever about it. Though I think his hair has gotten a shade whiter.”

On one hand Thorin feels relieved, because Balin is skilled at diplomacy and intrigue – there is no other member in his company who could single-handedly keep the unruly bunch of advisors and rulers in check – and yet this is Thorin’s job. Leaving it – with all its grievances to a friend – is not very friendly behavior indeed.

“Can I … can I speak with him?” Thorin asks.

Oin frowns. “While I don’t think that is a good idea, it is probably inevitable. Not today, however, since it is late – tomorrow, perhaps.”

It is not the answer Thorin wishes for. His mind remains unsettled, and his head spins – and yet sleep claims him fast and without mercy.

***

Bilbo’s muscles tremble from nervous energy that for now overrules his exhaustion. He stalks up and down in his tent, while Gandalf remains seated, patiently watching the hobbit grumble at the stubbornness of dwarves.

Negotiations did not move forward. Rather, Bilbo’s offer was greeted with suspicion, controversy and open hostility. Especially Dain’s advisors made no secret of their dislike of the hobbit – while Thranduil, and to a lesser extent, Bard, did what they could to further they own claims.

There is a headache pounding somewhere in the back of Bilbo’s head, but he is just too upset to pay it any attention.

“They will not take my word,” Bilbo complains, and Gandalf hums under his breath, “And I know Bard wants to accept my offer, and Thranduil would probably follow – just those stubborn dwarves that insist on having a word from the King.”

“Thorin is still too ill… but I will see what I can do,” Gandalf says, “But I came here for you, to see how you are doing.”

Bilbo sighs and collapses into his chair. “I’m alive. I suppose that’s all that there is to it.”

He is aware that he looks terrible. The lack of sleep and proper nourishment have rendered him pale and thin; excessive stress and ongoing nightmares have put a haunted look into his eyes. Bilbo does not like to gaze into mirrors these days.

“I would hope for more, but that would be a fool’s hope,” Gandalf says, and carefully reaches out to rest a hand on Bilbo’s knees, “But always remember, there are people around you that would be happy to share your burdens.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo musters a smile.

It is not convincing, and Gandalf’s expression remains concerned, even though he gets to his feet. “Well, I’ll see to it that tomorrow’s council goes a bit better then.”

“Please do so,” Bilbo says and then wishes Gandalf a pleasant evening. When the wizard leaves, a gust of cold wind blows inside and Bilbo shivers. It’s already dark, and the air is freezing. He misses his fireplace in Bag End, his warm blankets – the furs may be wonderful, but in the end they are just one more reminder of how far from home he is.

***

“Balin, I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night,” Oin sets down the lamp with a weary sigh. Darkness has long since fallen, but with Thorin’s health so brittle, Oin had to wait for somebody trustworthy to take up position for him. Even if it is Dori replacing him, he does not like it and intends to return soon.

“I was still up,” Balin replies and gestures to the pile of documents covering his desk. Oin glances from it to Balin’s haggard countenance and raises an eyebrow.

Balin nods in return – he needs no reminder that he ought to sleep more and worry less. He would if he could.

“Can I offer you some tea?” Balin inquires and Oin shakes his head.

“Thorin awoke earlier this evening,” Oin says, “Everything considered, he appeared fairly well, though much remains to be seen. Anyhow, he wishes to be briefed on the situation tomorrow – I will send a messenger the moment he is awake and ready if that is acceptable for you?”

Balin purses his lips. “That ought to be fine. Though I wonder if we should not cancel Council altogether tomorrow – without Thorin present finding an agreement appears next to impossible.”

“But we need an agreement,” Oin protests abruptly, “We’re running out of food and supplies. It’s almost winter – if we don’t get an agreement, it’ll be a catastrophe.”

Balin nods. “Yes, I know. And some others realize it, too, but I’m afraid, not all of them do. And those won’t be swayed by anyone but the king.”

“I … I don’t think Thorin will be ready to rejoin negotiations anytime soon,” Oin replies cautiously, “He may be awake, but he’s not … I don’t think he will regain his equilibrium fast enough. I’d rather not have him inside that … snake pit, before he’s truly well again.”

“I see,” Balin frowns, “Perhaps … Kili is well enough, and I believe Fili is only hampered by his leg injury?”

“You would send the lads into that?” Oin asks.

“Dain’s Lords would not listen to anybody else,” Balin replies, “I would rather not see them in there. Nor Thorin or Master Baggins for that matter. But as you said, winter is coming and we need an agreement.”

***

Bofur has, until now, not taken one of their unofficial guard shifts in front of Bilbo’s tent. For one, his arm is still healing and he is not yet at full strength. For another, he is not as intimidating as Bifur or Dwalin.

He is not sure whether it was a good idea to offer his cousin to take his shift in the early morning. Especially, when the noises from inside – groans, gasps and choked off screams – tell him that Bilbo is still not resting well. Bofur has seen little of the hobbit, and what he has, he does not like.

And yet, when the tent finally grows silent and Bofur resolves to let Bilbo sleep as long as he needs to, and coddle him some more after – a delegation of four elves walks up.

Their faces are vaguely familiar, though Bofur can’t tell whether from their imprisonment or the battle. Instead, he straightens – which is ineffective, since the elves tower over him, and could probably dispatch an arrow before he even could lift his mattock.

“Master Dwarf,” the leader of the small delegation says and inclines his head.

It is early, so not many dwarves are up. Still, Bofur feels many suspicious glances being cast his way.

“Master Elf,” he replies, “What brings you here at this hour?”

“Our King would speak to Master Baggins,” the elf replies. His robes are rather rich, Bofur notes – especially when compared to the shabby state of his own clothes. (But after the spell of gold-sickness upon his mind, Bofur will gladly eschew all riches for the time being).

“I’m afraid Master Baggins is not yet awake,” Bofur replies, wondering if that is a diplomatic faux-pas. He is not cut out for this, and feels all the more inadequate underneath the boring gaze that seems to cut through him.

“I will, however, take a message,” he offers.

The elf does not turn his nose up. Indeed, probably not a muscle on his face moves, and yet Bofur can still feel how the elf turns from him in disdain.

“I’m afraid our business is with Master Baggins, only,” he answers, “In that case we will wait until…”

“Thank you, that will not be necessary,” Bilbo’s voice cuts into the conversation before Bofur can even break into a sweat. He should not feel relieved – not when Bilbo ought to be resting.

“Master Baggins,” the elf says and bows, “My King would invite you to break your fast with him.”

Bofur frowns at the elf, yet Bilbo’s expression remains polite and unmoved. The shadows underneath his eyes betray that he has slept little this night, too, but his clothes are impeccable.

“I would be honored,” Bilbo replies, and Bofur can tell that the smile is fake.

“In that case, my kin and I will escort you there,” the elf says with a deep bow, and Bilbo graciously accepts.

Bofur wants to communicate that Bilbo ought to rest, that he does not need to embroil himself in politics beyond as far as he must – that he dislikes how pale and gaunt Bilbo’s face has grown, but the presence of the elves and all the curious eyes bind his tongue.

***

“Cancel today’s session?” advisor Fror does not look happy at the news. Behind him, Dain purses his lips in thought, though Balin is inclined to think he agrees.

“Yes. While we of Erebor would rather have an agreement sooner than later, I would prefer to confer with the King and the Princes today,” Balin replies.

“So my cousin’s health is improving?” Dain asks, “It gladdens me to hear that. Last I heard he was taken dearly ill. They wouldn’t even let me see him.”

Balin sighs and ignores the advisors around them – he still remembers Dain from a time when he played at being a miner under dinner tables, and can’t deny a certain fondness, even now. Especially, since Dain has proven himself to be a capable ruler over and over again.

“The journey’s strains caught up with him,” Balin returns, “We were – are still worried, but Oin is positive he will recover.”

“So I suppose we might see the princes in our midst?” Dain asks, while another advisor – this one completely white-haired and leaning heavily on a scepter that is more of a crutch – adds: “Aren’t they a bit young?”

There’s a little unrest among the advisors. Fili’s and Kili’s youth is only part of the suspicion with which Dain’s nobles and councilmen will greet them – they have not been born in Erebor, and their ties to the ancient dwarvish traditions are not as deep as some of these lords would deem it proper for future rulers.

Even Balin himself knows that neither of them is as fluent in Khuzdul as they ought to be, but there is only so much that can be taught when survival demands other skills to be transmitted first.

“Young they may be, but they have proven themselves on this quest,” Balin returns easily. The lords fall silent – neither of them dared to prove themselves against a dragon.

Fror clears his throat. “Prince Fili informed me he would not make decisions for the King.”

“And he won’t,” Balin replies swiftly, wondering just when Fror sought out Fili, “Which is why I would take this day to confer with the King and the Princes.”

The advisor looks ready to protest on principle, but Dain rises and forces him to fall silent. “Well, that does sound like an idea. Council will resume at the usual time tomorrow – I will see to it that all the others are informed – you needn’t worry about that.”

***

“You look tired, Master Hobbit,” Thranduil sets out once Bilbo has sat down on one of the lush silk pillows, “Are you troubled?”

The faint appetite Bilbo felt at the sight of the feast laid out vanishes instantly. He has to force himself to swallow down the sweet cherry, and his stomach rolls in response.

“It has been tiring few months, your highness,” Bilbo replies.

“Thranduil, please,” the King of Greenwood invites with a hint of warmth in his eyes. It disappears just as quickly, and Bilbo wonders if this is intentional, or Thranduil just appears so cool and unapproachable without meaning to.

“Very well,” Bilbo agrees easily, “Our journey to Erebor was not easy, and to have it all end in a battle was rather unexpected – so you have to forgive my companions and me if we seem unduly tired at times.”

“I can see how travel has worn you down,” Thranduil replies and helps himself to a baked delicacy that looks more like decoration than food, “And I would hazard that the emotional upset at the end was not easy on you, either.”

Of course Thranduil had been there.

Bilbo is glad his hands are empty, because involuntarily they slack. For a split second he’s again on the battlements and Thorin’s face is twisted with hatred, and callused hands close around his throat and…

“May I take a look at those bruises?” Thranduil inquires, suddenly a lot closer than Bilbo remembers.

He shivers.

“My son was quite concerned – he witnessed what happened, and also saw the dwarves carry you from the battle later on. He said you appeared gravely injured, though he could not tell how,” Thranduil explains, but his words do little to calm Bilbo’s frantically beating heart, “My healing skills may not be as famed as those of Elrond, yet I am not a poor healer, either. I would have offered my services sooner, had circumstances been different.”

Bilbo does not know what Thranduil could gain from this, but no polite excuse comes to his lips. So he quirks his lips, undoes the top three buttons of his shirt and concentrates on the lavish feast on the table while Thranduil leans forward.

The elf does not touch him, but Bilbo feels uncomfortable underneath the penetrating gaze. He himself has not paid much attention to the bruises – uncomfortable reminders that invoke nightmares whenever he dresses – yet Thranduil makes him wish he had.

What do they tell the elf king? Might they be used against Thorin – how so, if Thranduil already knows what occurred?

“Those have been well-treated initially,” Thranduil says, “Yet I believe you did not pay much attention to them recently. They are healing, but slowly. Do they give you any complaints? Trouble your breathing?”

“They do not bother me,” Bilbo replies, which is half the truth. He is happy to ignore those finger-shaped bruises on his neck, because even if they need longer to heal this way, he needs not to remember.

“That is good to hear,” Thranduil says, and that odd spark of kindness shows up again, “I did, for a moment, fear that dwarf had snapped your neck that day. You see, compared to a dwarf, you do seem quite fragile.”

Bilbo can’t quite hide his displeasure at being called fragile – in the back of his mind he knows that he is not in a good state, mentally and physically, yet he has not shattered and does not intend to  - so he will not be called fragile by an elf king who has the advantage of being twice his size.

“I suppose most hobbits would seems like this, then, due to our height,” Bilbo replies, “Though we are rather sturdy when it comes down to it.”

Thranduil leans back, satisfied. “I will leave these to your own judgment, then. But you are welcome to seek me out, should those bruises trouble you unduly.”

“I shall do so,” Bilbo replies, and forces himself to help himself to a glass of juice while the King of Greenwood enjoys his grapes.

“Have you and Thorin settled your differences then?” Thranduil asks, and had Bilbo’s manners been less deeply ingrained, he would have spit the juice right back out.

Instead, he takes a moment to swallow and gather his thoughts. “Mostly,” he replies, and remembers Thorin pleading. But that unforgiving, suffocating darkness lurks in that memory, and even now threatens to overwhelm him, and he doubts Thranduil fails to see it.

“Would it be too forward if I inquired to the background? I was there to see the fallout, but I remain uncertain as to the background.”

“You were there,” Bilbo wants to shout, “You were there, demanding to be paid – did you not see Thorin’s face then?”

Instead he keeps his expression friendly. “A misunderstanding,” he says, just as Dain suggested the day before, “I did not precisely understand the Arkenstone’s worth, and Thorin did misunderstand my intentions.”

“A misunderstanding you could have lost your life over,” Thranduil returns thoughtfully, “Do not misunderstand me, Master Hobbit, but I have known Thorin’s grandfather when he ruled and many that came before him. Treasure … has always appealed to dwarves in a way the rest of us cannot fathom – to the line of Durin more than to others.”

Thranduil’s pale eyes study Bilbo intently, and the hobbit’s heart skips a beat.

“I have found,” Bilbo replies evenly, “that Erebor’s treasures inspire a certain degree of greed in all.”

“Though not in hobbits?” Thranduil asks.

Bilbo’s lips twitch. “I have to admit, I was initially distracted by the dragon.”

“Understandable,” Thranduil inclines his head, “There is a matter I would like to speak of – one you may not like, yet I would cherish your view.”

Bilbo nods, and feels an invisible noose tighten around his throat.

“You have heard of, I believe, both, gold and dragon sickness?” Thranduil asks. Bilbo swallows and nods, because as much as he wishes, he is not a good enough liar to deny that he knows of them. He just hopes Thranduil will not find out how he learnt of them, and just how intimate this acquaintance grew to be.

“In that case, you will also know that the line of Durin is prone to both,” Thranduil continues, “And I must know about Thorin Oakenshield, before I am willing to accept him for my neighbor.”

Bilbo blinks. He finds his lips glued together, and as he fails to speak, Thranduil continues. “I did know Thror and his ancestors when they ruled under the mountain. They made their kingdom wealthy, I will not deny that, and some proved apt and fair rulers. Yet others – I shudder to recall them.”

Those pale eyes are boring into Bilbo’s soul.

“One, at an age past, set out to hunt dragons for their treasure. Another betrayed his craft to the dark One for the promise of riches from the dark lands to the South. One more found out that, if compressed, the ashen remains of any being – human, orc, elf or dwarf – will turn into diamond,” Thranduil says, “I do not know how many he burnt, but you will find, that the small numbers of dwarves from Erebor are not only due to their lack of women.”

An icy shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine.

“More than once Greenwood and Erebor have been on the brink of war,” Thranduil says, “And I hope you understand why I must know what kind of king Thorin will be – I will not have another burn my kin to enhance his riches.”

Bilbo’s lungs cannot draw air any longer. He does not know what to say – flounders helplessly, and eventually hangs his head.

“I … would not wish for a king like that, either,” Bilbo tells Thranduil, “Those tales – and what I have already learnt about gold and dragon sickness are horrifying. Perhaps it is because I am a hobbit, but I do not understand how treasure may motivate such cruelties – but then,” his lips quirk in self-depreciation, “This may also be why I am having such a hard time at negotiations.”

And Thranduil himself has not been a helpful presence there, either. With his insistence on a share of the treasure, he has brought up many of the dwarves against himself.

“I have known Thorin for some time, and I do not believe he would ever become like these kings of old,” Bilbo tells him, because that at least, is true. Thorin may have threatened death to him, may have … done what he did, but that mad gleam in his eyes was …

Bilbo wants to think it was not that cruel, but perhaps it was. His memories are blurred, and already there is cold sweat on his back the moment he attempts to access those recollection.

“To be honest, you have probably known Thorin far longer than I have,” Bilbo tells Thranduil, “Both, as a prince and as your prisoner – so you may be in a better position to make a judgment.”

Thranduil’s lips quirk. “Still, I thank you for your assessment. Have you tried the tomatoes yet?”

Bilbo forces himself to try them, and finds their taste more than agreeable. They might even outdo his homegrown, prize-winning tomatoes in the Shire – but then again, Thranduil’s kind must have millennia of experience at gardening, so the competition is slightly unfair.

“They are lovely,” he replies, though no matter how enticing, his stomach lies in too many knots to truly enjoy them.

“That pleases me,” Thranduil says, and then he sighs, “Your appetite, though, appears sparse this morning, Master Baggins.”

How could it have even stood a chance in face of Thranduil’s intrusive questions and penetrating gaze? Bilbo shifts in his seat, unhappy at the way his feet dangle above ground.

“With rations what they are, I am afraid I am not used to such amounts of food any longer,” Bilbo answers.

“Ah yes, I heard about that,” Thranduil comments airily.

Bilbo can’t help the spark of anger. Does the elf king expect him to come at his call, answer his questions, and then dismiss any concerns Bilbo has with a wave of his hand? True, it was an invitation for breakfast only, but after Thranduil’s interrogation, Bilbo feels the King ought to give something in return.

“It is one of the reasons I would see the agreement settled sooner rather than later,” Bilbo adds, not without a small hint of vehemence. Thranduil may not be the same obstacle some others are, but he does not make things easier. Especially with his reluctance to see Thorin King of Erebor.

Conversation, then, turns to more pleasant things. Once the messenger arrives to inform them that council has been cancelled today, even Bilbo leans back and enjoys nibbling on a pear. It is only when he goes, that Thranduil rests a hand on his shoulder.

“There is a shadow on you,” Thranduil tells him, “A darkness – it is intriguing, as it obscures to much I cannot even tell what lies underneath. If you are willing, I or my kin would try to heal it.”

Bilbo shudders. Hobbits are no creatures to be associated with darkness – they thrive on sunlight and air and open skies – he would rather not have heard Thranduil’s assessment. He knows what is wrong with him. Knows that those memories he cannot confront are eating him up, that his nightmares are slowly killing him.

But with all the questions Thranduil has asked, he cannot ask the elf king to heal him.

***

Balin finds his morning tea taste slightly off. Perhaps the leaves have not been well-preserved, which is no surprise, concerning the makeshift state of their equipment. He sets the cup aside, barely touched and reaches for the water mug instead.

Not much later Dwalin finds his brother slumped over a pile of documents, quill still in hand, his lips blue and barely breathing ** _._**

**_tbc_ **


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of the attempt on Balin's life slowly begin to spread. Gandalf suggests to move, Bilbo faces the council with new supporters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who is still reading! I am terribly sorry for the delay - though I did write out the next chapters in the meantime. Between this and the movie about to come out, there should be more frequent updates in the future.

Breakfast with Thranduil has left Bilbo unsettled. He is glad when he leaves the tent, shuddering, and wonders whether Elrond, too, can turn into such a callous politician should the need arise. For now though, he attempts to cast aside his bleak thoughts, tilts his head up and realizes that this is the first clear day in a long time.

And while winter may be coming, the sunrays on his face are warm and soothe the turmoil in his heart.

It would be a wonderful day for a walk. The air clear, a bit chilly – Bilbo turns his head west, gazes towards where the Lake and the Forrest are hidden. A good day for travel, indeed.

But he cannot leave.

Not even should this be the last sunny day before winter sets in truly. Already, the snowline covering the Misty Mountains sinks lower each time Bilbo catches sight of it. Erebor’s Peak is hidden from view, but it will be white, too, by now. Soon, it will be too cold to travel.

And Bilbo knows he cannot brave winter travelling on his own.

“Master Baggins!” a familiar voice calls out.

Gloin hurries over. Something is off about him; there is an urgency to his steps that fills Bilbo’s chest with ill foreboding. And yet, Gloin musters a smile and greets him with calm and cheer – and loud enough for all the surrounding soldiers to hear.

Bilbo understands the clue. “I was about to have tea,” he tells Gloin, “Would you join me? The guilds’ organization sounds fascinating.”

“Of course,” Gloin agrees, “Though my wife is much more suited in managing these than I am. I am but a mere banker, after all.”

Is there trouble with accounting? Gold gone missing? It would be the last they need – embezzlement to compound the already difficult negotiations.

Gloin is glad to fill what else would have been silence with tales of his wife’s deeds. Bilbo is glad for it, as it allows his thoughts to wander.

“I hope you don’t mind; I don’t have any tea,” he tells Gloin the moment they are both safely ensconced in Bilbo’s tent.

Gloin shakes his head, and his expression immediately grows tense. “Of course. Though we could get you some if you wanted – you only have to ask. But as to why I’m here – they poisoned Balin.”

“What?” Bilbo’s voice squeaks. He thinks he could not have heard correctly – even though Gloin’s words were clear and precise. But this cannot have happened – not when the world out there is sunny and calm.

Gloin answers Bilbo’s questions before he has a chance to ask. “He will recover, though it may take time. Oin thinks it was his tea, and the amount might have been fatal. You need to be careful.”

Bilbo swallows down the “why” on his lips. He is not that naïve to think that some parties would rather see negotiations proceed without him. Whether this would be in order to remove an obstacle and speed them up, or to weaken Thorin’s position, he doesn’t know.

"Today's meeting?" he asks instead.

Gloin looks at him for a long moment, and appear disappointed at what he finds. "Dain hasn't been informed yet. He'd cancel, I think, but most of the other delegations are already here so..."

There is nobody to represent Erebor.

Bilbo purses his lips. Looks at Gloin. “I think you may need to come with me, then.”

***

“You are too vulnerable here,” Gandalf says, and Dwalin nods in agreement, hand clenched around the handle of his axe. Nobody of the company can deny it – already they are stretched thin, trying to ascertain that those injured are never unguarded, and those moving about not left to fend for themselves.  

And now Balin, too, has fallen prey to harm.

Dwalin is unwilling to leave his brother out of sight – the memory of blue-tinted lips to fresh on his mind. Their company – or the remainders – are a sorry sight indeed. Thorin is recovering, Fili tied to his bed. Bilbo spirited away to negotiations he ought not to be part of, and nobody wants to burden Kili with what has already caused so much harm.

Yet Gandalf is right (he usually is). They cannot sit and wait any longer.

“It is also growing too cold,” Oin adds, “There’s barely enough wood to keep all those tents heated.”

There is not enough food either, but that is another matter.

Bofur purses his lips. “We do have a mountain, though. It may be in shambles, but we could clear up some of it.”

He does not sound all that enthusiastic about the prospect, even though he attempts to. Bombur beside him makes no attempt to hide his concern, and Dori looks away. Erebor is as much a symbol of their success as it is of their failure – and now, those memories are far more present.

They all remember the spell of gold – and how their priorities grew distorted, how gold grew more important than kin. It’s not a memory any of them is fond of, but one they will have to confront.

“Then we move into the mountain. We can better protect ourselves there,” Dwalin says. His brother would have made a better argument – but he is not his brother, and never had any of Balin’s diplomatic talent.

Automatically, they all glance around, searching for a leader. But there is none.

“When?” Dori asks, after the silence has grown too long.

Gandalf purses his lips. “I highly suggest you move tonight. We do not know what your enemy has planned – but it is usually advisable to throw them off, at least for a little while.”

***

Ori stumbles into the princes’ tent after lunchtime. Kili has just returned with two bowls of stew, prepared by Bombur who was mumbling about a lack of ingredients. Fili sits up on his cot, by now almost bored out of his mind, and yet somewhat scared to involve himself too deeply into the going-ons outside.

He has heard enough to know things are not going well, and he has no experience at court intrigues. It is difficult already when the players come to visit him. Fili does not know what to hope for – burdening all responsibilities on others is not very brave, but tackling them incompetent is not right either.

Ori is pale, doubled over, panting for breath. Fili’s heart drops, as Kili rises, asks “Ori?” and the other only waves away the concern. He’s fighting to gather himself, and his expression bides ill news.

“Balin…” Ori gasps, “Balin was poisoned.”

“What?!” Kili explodes, and crosses the room. Fili starts forward, but he is still tied to the bed by his immobile leg.

“Ori, when? How?” he hears himself ask – his voice strangled to his own ears, and barely audible over the pounding of his heart. Fili longs to be over there, to put a stabilizing hand on Ori’s shoulder the way Kili can.

(And he begins to detest this enforced immobility even more)

“I … I don’t know,” Ori stutters, chalk white, “Dwalin found him, that’s all I heard. Called Oin, and he’s been in there ever since.”

“He’s still alive?” Kili asks.

Ori blinks. “Y-yes. At least he was. I think Oin said he ought to be fine, too, but I’m not sure. Maybe I misheard, or maybe…”

“Ori,” Fili calls out, because his brother’s terrified expression is not helping any of them calm down. His own hands tremble, but he presses them into the sheets and decides to be the strong one among them, “Ori, calm down. Just tell us what you know. Slowly.”

Ori nods. He still shakes like a leaf, but at least he follows Kili’s lead and sits in one of the chairs.

“I just … earlier, I heard Dwalin calling for Oin. Said something about an emergency, so I followed – in case I could help,” he swallows and his hands twist in the fabric of his robe, “Oin said it was poison, but also that Balin was going to recover in time. Said that is must have been in his tea or breakfast…”

“Who’d do that?” Kili bursts out, “That’s terrible!”

It’s the thing enemies do. Not allies. And all that surround them are supposed to be allies – a cold shudder runs down Fili’s spine.

Ori shakes his head, “Anybody could have done it.”

Kili’s eyes widen. “But why? They’re … they’re no orcs.”

Ori swallows, seems about to speak, and then just shrugs. Fili worries his lip, wonders if he is making things worse, before he calls over: “What do you think? I’ve been cooped up in here for too long, I don’t know what is going on.”

(But perhaps he does know more than anybody expects since one ambitious councilor has visited him. And Kili, for all that he is a prince, is often overlooked for both his youth and his seeming naivite).

“They all have their own agendas,” Ori says, “I don’t know much, but I heard some conversations. Apparently one of the generals thinks Thranduil’s army should not be compensated since they didn’t help when Smaug came. Some would rather see Dain on the throne and most of the company gone – many disapprove of us that are not noble. Of Bilbo, too. And…” 

“I saw that,” Kili puts in, “Two of Dain’s nobles were picking on Bilbo just a few days ago. I did stop them, but who knows if they did it again.”

Ori looks even more harried after that comment. “I think many would profit from weakening our position. And with Thorin already ill, Balin was about the only remaining hindrance. Or maybe it was something else, I don’t know.”

Indeed, Fili thinks. There is more than one possible motive and more than one possible perpetrator. And he wonders if it was, once more, the gold that caused this new tragedy.

“Anyway,” Ori says, “Gandalf said we’d best move into the mountain, and everybody agreed.”

“What?” Kili asks, at the same time Fili asks, “When?”

Ori takes a deep breath. “Tonight.”

***

Thorin wakes sometime in the early afternoon. At least he thinks it is, because there is nobody around to ask. He is comfortable, even if his body aches, so he does not call out. Instead he focuses his eyes on the canvas overhead and lets his mind wander.

The despair sleep has mitigated soon catches up with him.

He remembers being obsessed with treasure (and how it felt when nothing mattered but treasure – now this causes him to shudder with dread), what he did to Bilbo and the pale, broken creature they drew from that chest. Balin’s disappointment, Dwalin’s disapproval. Fili and Kili staring at him in horror – and overbearing curiosity and greedy ambitions of Dain’s advisors and nobles. Not being able to quit or to atone without risking what he can’t risk.

And on top of bringing about this madness, he had taken leave of his senses right in the middle, attempted to flee the situation – where he has no right to, where he should shoulder his duty and fulfill it.

There will be time for recriminations afterwards.

Or so he hopes.

(Or perhaps death will finally embrace him and relieve him of these mortal sufferings. Perhaps then he may, too, be granted a chance to make up for his wrongdoing – there seems to be no opportunity for that in this world).

His thoughts spiral darker and darker, and pain envelopes his heart. Tears do not come, but his gaze grows empty. The bleak situation is entirely his fault, and there is no way he can do right by all – and he cannot even sacrifice himself, for that would mean handing the crown over to those that proclaimed their quest madness.

Now, though, he wonders where everybody is. Around him, the world is silent, and Thorin wonders what happened.

With a deep breath, he attempts to push himself upright – only to sink back with groan as Oin’s tea has left him boneless and weak. Even sitting up is an extortion – he knows he can’t yet think about getting out of bed, with the way he is panting.

But he must –

What if outside –

The tent’s entrance flap is drawn back and Oin wanders in, followed by Dori and Gandalf. All three look grave, haggard – Thorin swallows and braces himself for the worst.

“Thorin,” Gandalf begins, “It is good to see you awake.”

It feels unreal, simply because the last time Thorin saw the wizard he kept glaring at him. Now, he looks concerned.

Thorin inclines his head and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“We… “

“We move into Erebor, tonight,” Dori says before Gandalf can complete his sentence, “Something has come up – we are no longer safe down here.”

Dori casts a meaningful look at both Gandalf and Oin. The latter sighs and goes about with his tinctures, but Gandalf frowns. Eventually, though, he accepts Dori’s call – and Thorin wonders whatever has come up that they will not tell him.

***

Gloin wonders just what he allowed to get himself dragged into. Around him, Dain’s advisors are shouting across the table, and the elvish councilors protest just as fiercely. Thranduil watches with growing displeasure and Bard seems bemused. Next to Gloin, Bilbo is slumped in his chair.

He still looks far too unhealthy to be here, Gloin thinks.

And yet it were his words that set the councilors off.

“As stated previously,” Bilbo speaks, “I offer my share as compensation for the damages caused by Smaug and sustained in battle.”

One fraction, Gloin has realized, believes Bilbo, as he did steal the Arkenstone, has forfeited his share, and rather ought to be imprisoned and facing judgment instead of being here negotiating. A few men surprisingly share this – Gloin thinks that they may be betting on the dwarves’ greed to deny all compensation then and beget a violent confrontation in which they’d be backed by the elves.

All sides have been weakened in battle; it is unclear who would emerge victorious from another one.

Another fraction, and that is most of the elves, would see payment and be done with it. However, yet another group – and this one apparently includes Thranduil – does not only want payment, but also the matter of the gold sickness cleared up. Gloin can only gulp when he realizes how much hinges on it – and how happy some Dain’s clansmen are to line up behind the elfking in order to install another ruler in Erebor.

Bard, Gloin thinks after a while, is perhaps the only sane person in this madhouse.

“A fourteenth share ought to last us quite a while,” Bard says, “If we split it among us, it may very well cover both, damages and compensation.”

Some of Bard’s advisors are not that taken with the idea. “My Lord,” one man in a rich purple robe splutters, “Think about all the widows and orphans we have to provide for – and those that all chance to work fighting here. They will not be helped by a small reward – a fourteenth may barely cover it.”

“And our King marched here with a large army – would you see him not recompensed for the help he delivered?” ,a dwarf shouts.

“Your kind will have access to Erebor’s treasury anyway,” and this would be an elf, this one dark-haired and looking down his nose, “The gold is much more direly needed elsewhere.”

“Food and kindling,” Bilbo mutters under his breath, but only Gloin hears him. The argument around them continues.

Later, Gloin will not know what made him clear his throat and speak up. “On behalf of Erebor, I believe it might help if any claims of compensation could be posited more precisely. A fourteenth of the treasure – and I do believe that it would indeed be Master Baggins’ to do with as he pleases – is a considerable amount. And from what I do remember about the expenses needed to supply an army during an excursion, it will amount to much less.”

“And how would you know how much it cost us, exactly? We did have to bring supplies and compensate our soldiers – this is not a mere matter of employing sellswords,” one of Dain’s lord protests loudly, “These are skilled warriors and we compensate them as such. We are no…” He’s red in the face, and Dain himself waves him to stand down before he can say anything truly insulting.

“Master Gloin has been Master of Coin in the Ered Luin for two decades,” Dain comments causally, “I do believe he knows what he talking about.”

Gloin inclines his head gratefully. “As his majesty has said, I am a banker and as such familiar with financial issues. I cannot make decisions on behalf of my King, but I would think that rather than arguing over abstract amounts, a concise listing of expenses will be constructive.”

“And yet, will it not only lead to all of us arguing about the details and as such not help a quick solution?” a man inquires, “It’s growing cold, and we need to start taking action instead of dragging out negotiations. It won’t be long before people start dying from hunger and cold.”

Bilbo makes an odd sound, but Gloin is surprisingly familiar with this kind of argumentation. “And who will guarantee that the gold we give to help the poor and needy will not end up filling the pockets of the greedy? We have an interest in seeing this ended fairly and are willing to share our gold – even if it has to come from our private accounts – but not if it only furthers greed and ill will.”

This is what they know better than anybody else. Greed and gold sickness are ugly things, that can twist the mind of even the most well-intentioned person to the point where they will willingly sacrifice their family for one more gold coin.

“I see why precise accounting is necessary,” Dain says with a smile, “It would be easy to misdirect funds in a situation such as this – I believe for my part we will be able to provide the necessary papers. And I would think that Lord Thranduil, too, is familiar with the procedures.”

Thranduil glowers, but gives a sharp nod.

“Err,” Bard says, abruptly put on the spot, and Gloin almost feels sorry for him, “We … I … we have no professional accountant, I think? The man who looked after Laketown’s finances flew with the old Master. I will have to see if we have an able replacement?”

“Just find a lad with a good head for numbers,” Dain tells him.

Gloin isn’t certain if they have truly made progress, even though he feels successful. At least, expenses will from now on be clearly listed – which may help arguments over compensation and refunds.

“Then we might go on to the next item on the agenda?” Bard says, and it sounds like a question. Gloin can surmise that this is apparently a successful day of negotiations, and he still wants to tear out his hair.

“I would still have a question,” one of the dwarfs – this one in deep purple robes – rises, “If the financial aspect is settled, might not the Arkenstone be given back?”

He casts a glare at Bilbo that has Gloin shudder.

Bilbo takes a deep breathe. “The condition under which it is to be given back calls for a stable peace,” he says, “Financial regulation is but one aspect of it. The retreat of armed forces is another – and there hasn’t been any headway in that aspect yet.”

The dwarf is furious. “So you’re not giving it back?”

“Not right now,” Bilbo shakes his head, “The conditions…”

“This isn’t about the conditions!” the dwarf yells. Gloin sees Bilbo flinch, but then everybody does, “This is about how we are supposed to believe a known traitor to keep his word without any method of supervision! Do forgive me if I am unwilling to trust you, but who is to say you will not sneak away with your treasure a second time?!”

Bilbo has gone pale. His hands tremble, and Gloin wants to put a hand on his shoulder, say something, but his throat is closed. He wants to say that Bilbo is no traitor; that he will trust him with his life – and yet the words don’t come.

***

“You will have to trust him, Lord Janvi,” Kili says, but his smile at the astonished glances and gasps is half-hearted. He heard the shouting when he passed the tent, lost in his thoughts, until he abruptly realized, that with Gandalf busy with the healers, and Balin laid up, they’ve left Bilbo to go into the lion’s den alone.

After they promised not to let him come to anymore harm.

He’s too late for that, Kili thinks as Janvi shouts, but maybe he can do some damage control.

“The line of Durin does,” Kili states and that must be reason enough.

Gloin is the only one who appears grateful for his appearance. Dain looks bemused, Janvi seems to seethe with rage, the rest of the advisors are in various states of confusion and annoyance – and Thranduil might be rolling his eyes.

Bard looks as out of his depth as Kili feels.

And since nobody speaks up, Kili continues. “Master Baggins has only ever acted in our best interest. Not always have the King and him seen eye to eye, but in the end it has always worked out in our favor. And that is what we trust.”

After another long moment of silence, Dain clears his throat. “Very well. Might you perhaps also help us in another matter? We wanted to discuss future military dis ---“

Kili shakes his head so fast his hair whips into his face. “Actually,” he stammers, “I’ve come to fetch Master Baggins and Master Gloin. They’re needed --- elsewhere.”

*** 

Fili is rather surprised when Kili drags Gloin and Bilbo into their tent. Gloin looks worn, tired; Bilbo is pale and trembling and Kili is just as white. With a groan, he sinks onto his cot, and waves a hand at his friends to sit.

Fili watches with baited breath – the last surprise visitor had not brought any good news.

“How badly did I mess up?” Kili asks.

Gloin shrugs. “Seemed alright,” he says, “I mean, they’d have said anything elsewise.”

“But I just made something up on the spot,” Kili protests.

“And it got us and everyone else out of that horrible meeting,” Gloin answers, “I think you deserve a reward for that.”

“And if you speak for Tho – your uncle, they’ll probably let you get away with about everything,” Bilbo agrees. The smile on his face is faint.

Kili laughs, and it’s tinted with a hysterical edge. “That’s terrible.”

Then he glances up and fixes his gaze on Fili. “Promise me you will not die before me. I could never rule,” he says.

Fili is so perplexed he can only nod. (Though in truth, he does not want to be the one to see his younger brother die, either).

“What happened?” he asks, a bit belated.

Gloin sighs. “Your brother sprang us out of an uncomfortably meeting.”

“That Janvi had no right saying the things he said,” Kili exclaims, “You know that, Bilbo, don’t you?”

The hobbit nods. It’s a shaky gesture, and Kili rises and crosses over to him. Fili winces as his brother grabs Bilbo by the shoulders and starts to reemphasize his point louder than necessary.

Yet, after a moment, the tension drains from Bilbo’s frame, and he lets himself slump in Kili’s hold. “I know,” he mutters, “I know. It’s just …”

“Perhaps moving into the mountain will at least put a bit distance between you and them,” Kili replies and Fili sees the last bit of blood drain from Bilbo’s face.

“Move into the mountain?” Bilbo repeats.

Kili suddenly realizes his mistake. And Fili wants to draw them both close; Kili with his good intentions that so often end up hurting him, and Bilbo who looks so close to breaking.

“After what happened to Balin,” Gloin says, softly, “Gandalf thought it was a good idea.”

***

 

For once all Bilbo wants to do is to collapse and pass out. He is worn out, even though the sun is barely setting. His head spins, and while he can’t quite remember what he ate today, he feels queasy, and yet …

There will be no rest for him anytime soon. Outside, the Lonely Mountain looms dark and foreboding, and he will have to make the trek up tomorrow.

A shudder runs down his spine.

There is logic to the decision, and he will not fault Gandalf. The wizard will have known that to Bilbo returning to the mountain is no simple feat. With what happened to Balin, staying down here is out of question.

Not when he’s alone, and from the glares some dwarves (and others, so Bilbo tries not to see who all his looking at him with hate in their eyes) they would do things worse than poison. They’d finish what…

He sighs.

What Thorin started.

If he is to go up tonight and not fall apart, he needs to get a grasp. It doesn’t help that he feels he can’t, feels that he should shatter – but he needs to pack up and go.

With a deep breath, Bilbo steers himself to the small chest that holds the Arkenstone. His hands shake, as he opens it – and the stone glows, lighting up the tent with its own hypnotizing glow. It is beautiful, but it is a cold beauty.

It’s not worth the blood spilled.

And yet it caused Thorin to lose all comport. To...

Darkness crawls at the edges of his thoughts, threatening to spill over. It will devour him, it threatens, draw him back into that black abyss and never let him go again.

It caused Thorin to lock him in that thrice-damned chest, Bilbo thinks, and for a moment the world goes dark.

The memories he’s kept so carefully locked away soar up, viciously tearing through his mind. Phantom pains assault his knuckles – the burn of scratches and splinters digging into his skin. Wood under his fingertips – hard and unforgiving. The throbbing pain in his shoulder – and he can’t move, can’t breathe, there’s not enough air, and have they all forgotten him, will anybody come, even an orc, even if it’s just to kill…

When his vision clears, he’s collapsed on the ground and his face is wet with tears. His heart hurts and his head aches, and he has never missed his home so much.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili finds he will have a role to play, Nori does his job and Bilbo receives an unwelcome surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all for reading this far. :) I loved DoS and am looking forward to doing a lot of writing in the next two weeks.

Sunset seems to last forever.

Fili has drawn back a flap of the tent so he can watch the sky. He is too unsettled to rest – he wishes it was night already, so he could hike up to Erebor’s gate. The path, as he recalls it, is daunting, and he has yet to walk on his leg for any longer span of time.

Kili has left again, but had he stayed, they would have merely driven each other to further unease.

Fili does want to trust Gandalf, but he wonders at his advice. Dain may understand the necessity for the company to retreat into the mountain, but he doubts his advisors or Thranduil will welcome this move. The secrecy of it, too, adds to the tension.

Are they truly in that much danger? Would they be attacked in open daylight, should they move then? It appears daring, but history has seen more than one assassination, and Fili does not know what their enemy intends.

It seems weird that they should strike at Balin – for neither is he the one to bear the crown, nor can Fili see Thorin inviting any outsider to step up and fill his position. On the other hand, the attempt was precise – no other victim was intended.

An old grudge does not seem a likely motive, either.

Fili glances to the sky again – it is pink, the sun dipping further down in a brilliant orange glow – but it is slow, painfully slow. He would like to speak to Nori – perhaps he knows something – he knows he must speak with the rest of the company, and his uncle. With Balin ill, they are practically leaderless – they cannot rely on Gandalf or Bilbo for this. The former because he has his own agenda, the latter, because they have already asked too much of him.

Fili knows this ought to be his burden to carry – but he feels terribly ill-prepared, and lacking in information.

“Excuse me,” somebody shouts from the outside, and Fili jumps, “May I enter?”

It takes him far too long to recognize Dain’s voice – shameful for one who will one day bear the crown, but Fili manages to keep his voice steady and cordial as he invites the king of the Iron Hills inside.

Dain, thankfully, is not accompanied by his advisors.

“I will not bother you for long – I have been informed you, too, are still recovering,” Dain says, “But my advisors have voiced a number of concerns, central among them that currently they miss a head for negotiations from your side.”

He shrugs, and Fili wonders why Dain distances himself from his advisors like this. Though when he makes to reply, Dain gives a shake of his head.

“I understand that all of you would rather need time to recover – you did confront a dragon after all – but yet… it will be winter soon, and for that alone we all need to come to at least some sort of a preliminary agreement,” Dain continues.

Fili nods. Whatever Dain’s purpose may be, Fili senses no manipulation in his words, and he is quite aware of the building problems outside.

“For that reason, I was thinking that maybe between Erebor and the Iron Hills, we might see to coordinate our efforts a bit more closely,” Dain says, “If possible.”

Another shrug, as if to indicate that Dain could see such an attempt fail as well. What Fili has seen of Dain’s advisors thus far renders him skeptical, too.

“Mayhaps you could discuss this with your companions?” Dain suggests, “And meet me tomorrow for a private luncheon? If you’d like to, Master Gandalf and Master Bilbo would be welcome, too.”

Fili hesitates. He is too unfamiliar with political manuevering to be able to read between the lines – and he is terrified of saying something that will all the hard work of his uncle, Balin and Bilbo come to naught.

But there is nobody he can ask for advice.

“I’ll have to ask them,” he replies, “But I believe that we might benefit from a better coordination.”

Dain smiles, and nods. “I’ll be expecting you then.”

And Fili is left alone with his pounding heart and wondering if he has just agreed to a visit into the lion’s den.

***

“Bilbo,” Bard greets, and Bilbo wonders why the bowman has asked for him.

Bard’s tent is large and warm – almost stuffy. Bilbo prefers the crisp air outside; the still air invokes uneasy memories. But he pushes those aside (he has had his cry last night, and in the nightmares. It’s a miracle nobody came to investigate – his throat was certainly sore this morning).

“Bard,” he says and inclines his head.

“Take a seat,” Bard invites, “Some water? Or tea? I’m afraid we don’t have any ale or wine to offer.”

“Tea please,” Bilbo replies, while Bard gestures for somebody to go and fetch it. Then he sits down opposite Bilbo.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much in terms of food to offer,” Bard continues, “We’re depending on Thranduil right now.”

Bilbo nods, though his stomach twists when he recalls the uncomfortable breakfast with the elven King the other day.

“Though … “ Bard purses his lips, “If you’re unwell, I can arrange for something to eat, thought.”

Bilbo catches the concern in his eyes and wonders if he truly does look so pathetic. “I will be alright,” he replies, “Please don’t bother on my account.”

Bard’s face falls, but before he can say anything, the other man returns with tea. The liquid is steaming, and Bilbo busies himself with it, while Bard dismisses the guards.

If he intends to talk in secret, Bilbo thinks, this will not work. The walls have ears in this camp, and for a moment he wonders if he ought to worry about his tea. Balin was poisoned this way – and wouldn’t this be a wonderful way to pin it all on Bard and his men?

“Terrible days,” Bard sighs, “I wouldn’t bother you if I knew anybody else who would give me straight answers. But you seem to be the last trustworthy being left in this affair.”

Bilbo swallows, and instinctively hunches his shoulders. It feels like a blow coming towards him – one he cannot deflect.

“Don’t answer what you cannot or will not answer,” Bard continues, “I will not ask you to burden yourself further. But – from what I heard, both Balin and Thorin will not be able to head negotiations for the time being. Is that true?”

“It is,” Bilbo replies. There is no way of talking around it – they may recover, but it will not be soon.

“Well,” Bard sighs, “My stake in the succession to the throne of Erebor is not the largest. I am aware that there are disagreements – and Thranduil is weary to see one on the throne prone to dragon sickness. I can understand his point, I would not want for history to repeat itself, and what I have seen of that curse has been frightening indeed.”

His eyes find Bilbo. “But I suppose you would know that better than anybody.”

Hands around his throat. Pulling at his arm. Darkness. Wood under his hands. Still air. Silence. Bilbo feels his mind slipping, feels nausea rising and clutches the cup tighter to his chest. Forces himself to breath – breathe the smell of the tea leaves, acknowledge the air on his skin – this is not…. Not the darkness any longer.

And while he manages to overcome the maelstrom, his reaction apparently confirmed something for Bard. The man leans back in his chair and folds his arms on the table, and suddenly Bilbo feels angry.

Bard has no right to play so lightly with his feelings, not when Bilbo is doing his utmost to help all of them, not when he is practically sacrificing his well-being so Erebor and Dale may be rebuilt.

“Yes, indeed,” Bilbo says tightly and sets the cup back down on the table. He rises – not smoothly, since the chair is too high for him, but he keeps his chin up. “If this is all…”

“No, please, wait,” Bard protests, and seems to realize he has gone too far, “I apologize, I did not mean to offend you.”

Bilbo’s heart is racing, and there is cold sweat on his back from the flashback. He does not sit back down, but he doesn’t walk out either.

“I’m sorry. What I meant to say was, while Thranduil may have his own concerns, mine are different,” Bard continues, “We… we are almost entirely out of food. Currently we almost completely depend on Thranduil to support us, but I know he plans to withdraw as soon as things have been settled. And then we will have nothing – not only the men, but the women and children, too.”

He wrings his hands. “Once the snows set in, we will have difficulty trading. And now we have no funds to buy grain from elsewhere –“

Bilbo feels his anger drain away. He is not happy with Bard, but that does not mean he can condemn Laketown’s entire population to starve just because he felt slighted. And – in the back of his mind a malicious voice whispers – did he not indirectly cause Smaug to lay waste to the town, too? Does he not owe them?

“You need gold,” he summarizes.

Bard hangs his head. “Yes. I know I have no right to bother you, but time is running out, and I do not want to watch my people starve.”

And Bilbo did once trade them the Arkenstone for exactly that. He swallows. “I did promise you my share in reparation,” he says, “And I’m not going back on that.”

“I never doubted that,” Bard assures, “But, well, with the leadership of Erebor uncertain – I cannot trade with promises. I’m afraid I need coin.”

“I see,” Bilbo says. He doesn’t know if he has any right to Erebor’s gold right now. Perhaps he could return the Arkenstone to its place or take some in secret – it doesn’t taste right, but the problem will not wait for an elegant solution. “I will see what I can do.”

“Please, Bilbo,” Bard adds, “If I cannot send out traders by tomorrow, I’m afraid we will have the first dead before a fortnight is over.”

Bilbo closes his eyes. He does not want this responsibility. It is too much trust, too much faith – hasn’t he already made a mess of things? Why do people keep asking him to help, when he is so obviously unsuited?

“I will,” he promises, “By noon tomorrow you should have coin enough.”

Even if he must steal it.

Bard releases a relieved sigh. “There are no words to express my gratitude, Bilbo,” he says, “And if there is anything you desire that is in my power to grant, I will do so.”

***

The move into the mountain proceeds with caution. Dori, Ori and Bofur are the first to move their belongings – they have been going back and forth between the camp and the mountain often enough recently for it to not raise any questions.

Dwalin isn’t certain if their strategy will work. What end it will serve. But Gandalf deems it necessary, and Balin remains still and pale, though Oin assures them he will wake. It will be better for all of them to be out of harm’s way.

At least physically.

There is little distance will do for Thorin. For Fili – who now must step up and bear a burden he is not ready for – or for Bilbo, who seems to be hanging on by a thread.

Dwalin wishes he could march down, tell Thranduil and Dain and Bard to wait – give them time to catch their breath, time to recover. But he knows strategy, and he knows the weather. The ground has been covered in a thin layer of frost this morning – snows will come soon.

And Nori may be good, but Dwalin knows when he has gained a shadow.

“And hello to you to,” Nori greets with a grin. They are far enough from camp to be little more than two flecks walking toward the mountain. Around them the plain lies silent.

“Any news?” Dwalin asks. This part will take long to recover – the ground is scorched and soaked with black orc blood.

Nori’s good humor fades. “Nothing good. Some of the nobles suspect something happened to Balin – though they suspect madness, same as with Thorin.”

“But then they’re unlikely to have poisoned him,” Dwalin responds.

“Well, either that or they’re just that clever,” Nori says, “But you’ve met them yourself. With the exception of one or two, it seems unlikely.”

“All of them?” Dwalin inquires, “And what of the men and elves?”

“I’d think somebody would have noticed a man or an elf sneaking around our camp. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have paid of somebody,” Nori tells him, “I asked around, and the lower rank from – I think five nobles – complain that they don’t make nearly enough. Dain’s men not included – they seem content.”

“So we’re looking for somebody who’d rather have out company out of the way and is stingy with his own people?” Dwalin asks, disgusted.

“Fitting profile,” Nori agrees with just as much distaste, “But the situation is working in their favor – the elves and men are interested in seeing somebody take charge and settle things. If Thorin and Balin are out of commission, it might just fall to Dain.”

“What would be their plan all along,” Dwalin concludes, “Though I doubt Dain would allow them free reign.”

It has been long, and he has never been as close with Dain as Thorin had been, but the other dwarf had always struck him as upright and honest.

“But all rulers have a weakness,” Nori whispers, maliciously, “And Dain has several. He depends on his lords – for their taxes and for their men. They can easily force his hand, threating with secede or rebel. The Iron Hills are not as rich, and there are many mouths to feed.”

“But anyway,” Dwalin says, uneasy at this new revelation, “Shouldn’t Fili be next in line?”

“Unlikely if all of his group prove themselves susceptible to the sickness,” Nori counters, “But yes, that might be the only way for now.”

“He’s too young,” Dwalin exclaims, “He hasn’t got any experience. And who is going to help him? Kili?”

“We all must do what we can,” Nori replies, darkly, “And watch our own backs. It is not unlikely, that more has been planned.”

“Who?” Dwalin asks.

Nori frowns. “You. Gloin. Bilbo. Me. We are few, and nobody is truly safe.”

And that is true. But for now Dwalin hopes that the mountain will protect them.

***

“What happened to him?” Thorin asks, when Oin enters the chamber. When he left, the king had still been unconscious – and he does not look much better for being awake.

Oin contemplates giving him more tea, but Thorin gazes back and forth between Oin and Balin, who occupies the second bed in their makeshift infirmary.

“Poison,” Oin answers and Thorin pales.

He straightens up. “Who poisoned him? Why did they do it? Has the culprit been apprehended? What is happening – “

Oin raises both hands, gesturing for the king to calm down. It is discomfiting that even now Thorin’s face remains pale without any flush to reveal his upset – rather speaking of his condition.

“We do not know what has happened,” Oin replies, “But Balin will be alright in time.”

Thorin’s hands fist around the blanket. “Who is in charge? In the negotiations, who is in charge?”

Oin swallows. “That has not yet been decided.”

“Good,” Thorin proclaims, “I will…”

And Oin shakes his head. “No, Thorin, you won’t. You are in no condition to go back into that snake pit.”

Because if it had been Thorin, the poisoned tea would have been fatal.

***

It's an irregular flicker of the candle that has Bilbo tense. He kneels over the rucksack he is packing, rolling up his remaining clothes. Outside, a cold wind from the north is howling, and maybe -

He rolls to the left, and the blade misses him barely, he feels the metal ghosting over the skin on his back. Bilbo reaches for a blade that is not there, his heart in his throat, and his attacker growls.

He twists around, and just manages to duck away from the second lunge. The blade catches his shoulder, and it burns, and Bilbo is still too close, tries to back away, but he can't find his feet, and he is unarmed 

He lashes out and catches something.

There is a grunt, the attacker hits the floor, and Bilbo manages to twist away. His hand closes around Sting’s hilt, and he draws the blade – his heart in his throat – heat tickles his skin. Bilbo stumbles to his feet, waving the blade, as his attacker does the same, and he deflects the blade at the last moment. 

Then there is smoke in his lungs, and Bilbo abruptly realizes that the tent is on fire. He coughs, his eyes tear, and only manages to duck away from the black-clad shape at the very last moment. His own blade strikes, though, and the attacker stumbles back.

Bilbo blindly grasps for his pack, the fire spreads, and the smoke grows ever thicker. There’s coughing, a groan, and he knows he must run if he wants to live. He senses the metal of the ring – cool and smooth – in his pocket and fumbles for it.

A shout, and the attacker comes hurling out of the smoke. Bilbo twists, but his ankle catches on something, and he falls. Hits his head, sees stars, but manages to fumble the ring onto his finger.

His attacker makes an odd sound, and his blade buries itself in the ground just inches from where Bilbo is lying. The air is terribly hot, and Bilbo can’t breathe, and his limbs are heavy, and the assailant remains hunched over. He is bleeding; Bilbo sees the metallic shine in the firelight.

Outside people start shouting, and the back part of the tent collapses.

Bilbo pushes himself up on his elbows, drags himself away. His vision is spotty, blurred – from the ring or from the smoke, he doesn’t know. But he’s almost out, when his foot touches the attacker.

A shout, and pain races down from his shoulder as cold metal pierces through his clothes. 

Then Bilbo is outside, blinking like an owl, as dwarves rush past him. The world is glowing, and in a roar the tent goes down. His head is spinning –

Not that the attack surprises him, he knows most dwarves don’t particularly like him, but why –

His gaze finds the entrance of Erebor. The torchlights flicker invitingly, though the pack in his hands is heavy. He must get away from here. Out of the commotion – he does not know if his attacker had allies.

If somebody else is waiting to finish the job.

But he feels tired.

Terribly so. And his back burns. 

The mountain isn’t far. He can rest then.

With a small cough, Bilbo forces his feet to move. Somehow, even invisible, he manages to stagger through the throng of dwarves racing to the burning reminders of his tent. In the uproar, nobody bumps into him, and Bilbo is grateful.

Warm liquid trickles down his back. His breath fogs in the air.

And the gate is still so far, so terribly far away.

Perhaps he will just rest for a moment. There are not so many people here. The noise is almost gone – and the wind whispers, cooling his sweaty forehead.

Just a small pause…

**_tbc_ **


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is saved, Kili not very nice to Dain and Thorin at war with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay - at some point I thought that having days off over the holidays would mean time to write, but that was quite a mistaken assumption. Also, if this chapter seems transistory, yes, it is. Bilbo and Fili get to shine in the next one.

“Kili! Dwalin! Everybody!” Ori bursts through the door to their meeting chamber, hair askew.

Kili whirls around, as do Dwalin and Gloin. “What is it?” Dwalin demands. Ori glances around, gasping for air – but most of the company have retired already.

“Bilbo,” Ori stutters, and Kili pales, “Bilbo… his tent … on fire.”

“What?!” Kili bursts out. Dwalin reaches for his axes next to his seat, and Nori straightens. “When?”

“Right now,” Ori stutters, and Dwalin is on his feet and pushes past him, his face a thundercloud. With his heart in his throat Kili stumbles after him, barely remembering to grab a weapon. Behind him, he hears Ori’s and Nori’s footsteps, but his mind is racing.

Who would do that? Why? Why now? And where is Bilbo now? Was he harmed?

From his memory he recalls Bilbo’s pale face, the shadows underneath his eyes – the hobbit’s health had been so damaged already, and Kili dares not to imagine what this may have done to their lucky member.

An icy gust of air greets them, carrying a hint of snow and ash. The echo of shouts. Down below, the camp is alight in the glow of a dying fire. As Ori said – Bilbo’s tent. Or formerly Thorin’s – Kili can recognize it even from here.

Dread pools in his stomach. “Bilbo?” he turns to Ori, “Where is he?”

Ori bites his lip – he is pale. “I … I thought he might have come here already…”

The ground seems to drop out from underneath Kili’s feet.

“He hasn’t shown up yet,” Nori mutters, a dark frown on his face.

Ori’s eyes widen. He’d obviously hoped for a different answer – and Dwalin’s only reaction is to tighten his grip on his axes and start the way down, wearing the same expression he wore when they left the mountain to face that army of orcs and goblins.

“But … he … he can’t,” Kili whispers, helplessly. They can’t lose Bilbo. Not now. Not after all they’ve been through.

“Come on, lad,” Nori pats his back, lips pursed in a thin line, “We’d better get down there. If he’s there, I’d rather we get him away. Ori, you go and tell the others.”

Ori looks about to protest, but then nods sharply.

***

The smoke is so thick, it is difficult to breathe. Nori knows how to, but Kili keeps coughing and rubbing at his eyes. Around them, the camp is in an uproar – dwarves are shouting, running, though the fire is dying. The cold and humidity have helped the chaotic attempts at putting it out along.

It hasn’t spread – lucky, considering the camp is fairly cramped. But it also means that there can’t have been much time between the start and it getting noticed – certainly not a failsafe method of assassination.

Nori frowns. Either the fire was an accident or it served to cover up evidence. The latter, though, he thinks unlikely – whoever started it, would have known it’d be discovered quickly.

If it was to remove something specific? Something set aflame, before the fire had been allowed to spread?

He edges closer, followed by a grim-faced Dwalin. The debris here is burned, blackened and betrays little. The earth is dislodged, but helpers may have caused that, too.

“What is happening here?” somebody exclaims, and Nori turns to see Dain march in, surrounded by his generals and advisors, all robed but in states of disarray. The king of the Iron Hills glances around, until he finds Kili.

Before he can say anything, Fror steps forward. “Is everybody alright? Was there an accident?” He makes a show of puttering around, before sliding up next to Kili. “What happened?”

Kili’s lips twist downward. “That is what I would like to know,” he declares, “We were only called here now.”

Dain steps forward, pale-faced. “This was master Baggins’ tent, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t know whether he is safe, then?”

Kili gives a sharp shake of the head, and Nori wonders if the boy isn’t providing too much information. But there’s no decent excuse –

“Didn’t the hobbit have the Arkenstone?” somebody else exclaims, “Where is it now?”

“It must still be there!” somebody else shouts.

“Get more water! Get the fire extinguished! Now!”

“Look for master Baggins, too!” Dain orders, though Nori supposes most of the frantic activity breaking out around them serves to retrieve the Arkenstone.

Sometimes he feels disgusted by his kind. But, perhaps, it is only the short spell of gold sickness they all were under that allows them this perspective. Dwalin watches, stone-faced.

“We’ll do whatever we can,” Dain tells Kili, “Do you need more guards? I don’t know what caused this, but I would know you safe.”

Beside him, two generals nod. Nori eyes them suspiciously – military men, they’ve not spoken much except to join the chorus of the advisors every now and then.

Kili, however, shakes his head. “That will not be necessary,” he tells Dain, and then his face grows dark, “Anybody not a dwarf would have been noticed in the camp. We cannot rely on those whose loyalty may be bought by our enemies. You cannot guarantee my safety any more than being in the middle of this camp could guarantee Bilbo’s.”

Dain swallows hard. One of his advisors pales with rage, but next to Dain Kili is highest in rank – they dare not speak openly against him. Not when behind Kili Dwalin lingers, threatening silently to behead the first dwarf to implicate himself.

“I fear you have the right of it,” Dain acknowledges, “Though I would offer you some of my personal guard – those are dwarves I would trust with my life.”

It is an honorable offer, Nori thinks, though that Dain trusts them with his own life does not make them trustworthy in regards to others.

Kili shakes his head. “Our company is back at the mountain. It is the safest for us, as long as we do not know whom we can trust.”

And glares at the advisors hovering behind Dain’s shoulder. Nori almost grins – Kili, it seems, might one day make a decent ruler.

“The mountain?” Dain echoes, surprised, “You…”

“There’s a body!” somebody shouts from the remains of the tent, and all else is forgotten.

***

“It wasn’t Bilbo,” Nori says the moment they are out of earshot on their way back to the mountain. The camp is still in an uproar – the Arkenstone remains missing. Dwalin nods – he suspected it from the first moment he saw the charred corpse. Kili, though, is shaking.

“Really?” he asks, faintly.

“Too tall. Too broad in the shoulders,” Dwalin offers. There were other things as well – though it doesn’t tell them were Bilbo is.

“Sting was missing, too,” Nori adds. The blade next to the corpse had half-melted in the heat of the fire – obviously not an ancient elvish blade.

Kili swallows. “But … still… I, if he wasn’t there, then…”

They can’t be certain what happened to the hobbit. Perhaps he died, and nothing remained? Dwalin knows that can happen, though he believes the fire would not have burned hot enough in the icy night air. Perhaps he was taken – he does not want to imagine that.

“Let’s hope he got away,” Nori suggests, “He did have that ring that made him invisible, after all.”

Kili nods, still distracted. “But why, why hasn’t he come to us?”

Dwalin frowns. There are too many reasons for Bilbo not to return to the mountain. Perhaps the hobbit finally decided he had sacrificed enough and used the opportunity to get away from it all.

In that case he wishes him the best. Travelling all the way back to the Shire in winter will not be easy.

“Perhaps he…” Nori trails off, “Oh, look, here. That looks like a hobbit footprint, doesn’t it?”

And indeed, the mark in the mud is clear.

Dwalin stares at the print. Spies the next one. And the one after that.

“He must be alive!” Kili exclaims, relieved, and while a part of Dwalin certainly shares the sentiment, he also realizes that the footprints lead toward the mountain.

Why didn’t you run, he wonders. It would have been the perfect chance. Instead –

He sighs and follows Nori and Kili. Whatever Nori thinks, he says nothing. Kili is bristling with nervous energy, on the edge of calling out. But the camp is silent, and the less attention they draw, the better.

The footsteps are fairly close together. Even considering Bilbo’s shorter leg span – those are short steps. Uneven, too,

Alive, but not well. Perhaps the smoke from the fire?

Or something more malicious?

With a frown Dwalin catches up to Nori and Kili. The young prince is looking left and right, searching for their errant former burglar. Nori’s eyes are fixed on the prints.

He must have drawn the same conclusion as Dwalin.

“Has he gone off path?” Kili asks, as Nori continues to lead them to the right. The ground here is uneven and difficult to navigate. For a dwarf, it’s reasonable, but Dwalin eyes the precipe they are slowly approaching with concern.

Hopefully –

“The trail ends here,” Nori announces abruptly.

“What?” Kili asks, “But where’s Bilbo? There’s nobody here!”

Nori sighs, and Dwalin frowns. His eyes tell him that Nori has the right of it, but it doesn’t make much sense. Not even a hobbit can disappear into thin air.

“Well, it’s –“ but whatever Nori wants to say is abruptly cut off when a low groan comes from nearby.

“Bilbo!” Kili shouts, “Where are you? Bilbo!”

A shuffling noise – Dwalin has just enough time to determine it came from close to the ground – and all of a sudden their hobbit is visible, just slightly to their left, leaning against a boulder.

“’m here,” he mumbles, fumbling with his something in his pocket, “No need to shout…”

“Bilbo,” Kili hurries over, relief brightening his voice. And a weight is taken from Dwalin as well, though as he looks at Bilbo he does not like what he finds. The hobbit is terribly pale, and –

“You’re hurt!” Kili kneels directly before Bilbo, combing the messy blond curls out of Bilbo’s face to reveal blood and a blossoming bruise. From the way Bilbo leans against the stone, Dwalin is afraid of what might be hidden underneath his clothes.

There is no reply from Bilbo either. The hobbit blinks, trying to stay focused. Dwalin pushes past Kili and grabs Bilbo by the shoulders before he can slump over.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks, and already feels warm liquid under one hand.

“Shoulder…” Bilbo stutters, “Ankle… not bad. Just … just … fell.”

Dwalin purses his lips, and decides to trust Bilbo on this. He leans down, wraps one arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and puts the other under the hobbit’s knees and lifts him up. Bilbo is light and small in his arms – even dwarf children are sturdier.

And yet so much responsibility rests on those small shoulders.

“We’ll get you to Oin,” Dwalin promises, “You rest, and tomorrow you’ll feel better.”

*** 

Thorin may have his eyes closed since he does not want to speak to anybody – his mind remains a black pit – but he is awake when Dwalin stumbles into the room, yelling for Oin.

“Oin,” Dwalin shouts again, “Oin!”

The urgency in Dwalin’s voice makes Thorin glance over. For a moment, the world swims, but then the shapes grow clear – and that is Dwalin on the other side, setting down a bundle on a cot.

Balin, Thorin ascertains with a glance, does not even stir at the noise. But then Oin said he would be in a deep sleep until his body had dispelled the poison.

There is a clatter from next door, as Oin mumbles something.

“Hurry!” Dwalin shouts.

There are red stains on his furs. Thorin blinks, as dread coils in his stomach.

“Yes, yes,” Oin calls, stumbling into the room, “What…”

He breaks off abruptly, and Thorin raises his head. Catches sight of soot-covered blond curls, ash-stained skin and a small hand dangling lifelessly from the furs on the cot.

His heart stutters to a sudden stop.

“Bilbo,” Oin says, leaning forward, while Dwalin seems yet unwilling to let go completely of the hobbit, “What happened to him?”

Thorin doesn’t notice that he has stopped breathing. His eyes are mesmerized by the small, fragile hand – and there is fresh blood glinting on Bilbo’s skin.

“Attacked,” Dwalin replies, “A cut on the back is the worst, though I think he may have hit his head at some point.”

Oin frowns and gestures at Dwalin to sit Bilbo up. The hobbit is like a doll under Dwalin’s hands, and Thorin catches a glimpse of Bilbo’s face. It is terribly pale, stained with blood and ash, and his eyes are closed.

Then Oin steps into his line of vision, and Thorin doesn’t see anything.

“Nasty piece of work,” Oin mutters, looking at something Thorin can’t see, “But it won’t kill him.”

Dwalin exhales in relief, and Thorin feels a weight disappear from his chest.

“Alright,” Oin says, and steps back to reveal the blood-soaked fabric of Bilbo’s formerly white shirt to Thorin, “Take him next door. I’ll just grab some things.”

“Next – “ Dwalin begins to ask, but then Oin nods sharply into the direction of his other two patients.

Dwalin looks, and for a moment his and Thorin’s eyes meet. Something passes through his eyes, but Thorin, for all the years he has known Dwalin, cannot identify the expression, but it leaves an ache deep within his chest.

Without saying anything, Dwalin scoops Bilbo up, turns and disappears through the door.

And Thorin is left alone.

There is blood on the cot Bilbo had lain on. It glistens in the dim light, mocking Thorin – this is what he wrought, this is his doing, he might not have wielded the weapon, but he is King and this is his kingdom and shouldn’t he be protecting his own better than this? Especially Bilbo whom he already has so grievously wronged?

A memory of Bilbo’s ashen face flashes before his eyes, back when they had first pulled him from the wooden chest – the terror on his face, and the realization that something within the hobbit had broken, broken so badly it may never heal.

Or is this Thorin deluding himself? Is there a chance at healing at all, or is this just his own wishful thinking? Projecting his desires onto reality instead of owing up to what he caused? Escaping into fantasies his mind conjures, and letting others suffer for it?

Balin’s silent presence is a stark reminder. And now Bilbo – how many more must pay the price? How many more while Thorin stares at the ceiling or sleeps?

He bites down on his lower lip. If only he was stronger – if only he could leave this bed, go out there and shoulder the responsibility. But if he had been stronger, this would not have happened.

And even if he had the strength to step out and take the crown – might he not make it worse?

***

“Nori,” Fili greets the other dwarf.

“Shouldn’t you be abed?” Nori asks in return, curiously observing how heavily the prince leans against the stone pillar. Perhaps he ought to revise his plan – but he is out of options.

“It’s healing,” Fili returns sharply, “I heard from Ori – there was a fire? Bilbo’s tent? Is everybody alright?”

Nori sighs. Looking closer, he can see dark shadows under Fili’s eyes, and when was the last time any of them had a good night’s sleep anyway? It’s been far too long – and to think that the real difficulties only started after Smaug was slain and the battle won –

In all honesty, Nori is not surprised. “They’re all alive, if that’s what you mean. Except for the attacker, though.”

Fili’s eyes widen. “So it was an attack?”

Nori nods. “Bilbo’s got a nice cut down his back to show for it.”

Fili takes a deep breath and slumps against the pillar.

“Sit down before you fall,” Nori advises and wonders where the other prince is. Kili has been going off on his own a lot recently, and while it certainly helped the company, it may not be helping Fili’s convalescence. Or perhaps they are all guilty of ignoring the prince – they’d known he was out of danger but bound to the bed by his injuries – like they’re still ignoring how the gold sickness affected more than just Thorin.

“But he’s alright?” Fili gasps out, and Nori is there to help him to a chair as he stumbles.

Nori shrugs – who of them is alright at this point? “He’ll heal,” he says, because he is confident that at least the injury will do so.

“And who … who attacked him?” Fili asks. Even sitting, he remains far too pale and out of breath, and Nori wonders if Fili’s own injury is healing as it is supposed to.

“We don’t know,” he replies, “The body was burnt – the remains, well, probably a dwarf, but it also could have been a man.”

Fili worries his lower lip. “Is this related to what happened to Balin?”

“We don’t know,” Nori repeats. And even if Fili is in no condition to take over, he has the mind for it – Nori is certain of this, “There is a good chance it is, but then, there are many fractions down there and a lot of them are discontent. Bilbo is not exactly a favorite among the dwarves from the Iron Hills either.”

“Mahal,” Fili breathes, slumps forward and puts his head in his hands, “This is… when did it become such a mess?”

And he looks too young to be sitting here. It’s easy to forget Fili is just barely an adult, has been clinging to his mother not too many years ago.

“The thing is…” Nori continues, “It’s not going to end here. Dain’s certainly trying to keep some of his over-ambitious nobles in check, but that peace is not going to keep. Not while they believe Erebor’s there for the taking. And we’ve seen what the treasure can cause.”

Fili blanches. “What do you mean?”

Nori purses his lips. This is why he doesn’t do politics – he likes collecting information, he doesn’t like making decisions.

“The peace we have right now is very, very fragile,” Nori says, “Give them a cause and we may have a rebellion or another war on our hands. I don’t know what Dain’s intentions are, but a number of his generals certainly would not mind marching on the mountain. They’d claim all of us out of our minds from the gold sickness and take Erebor for themselves.”

“But Gandalf…” Fili protests.

“Gandalf is one lonely wizard,” Nori returns, “And Bard might not like it, but he has a town to rebuild and can be bought, and do you think Thranduil would care?”

He shakes his head and steps back. Glances at the intricately carved pillars around them. “There are many that would stand to gain from taking Erebor from us. Why do you think Balin was attacked? With him and Thorin incapacitated, there are few to defend our position.”

Fili swallows. “I … if I were to join the negotiations…”

“They would listen.”

Fili swallows visibly. “But I have no idea what to do. I mean, certainly, I will do it, for all we went through, but what if I make things worse? What if I end up causing a war? Or agreeing on some terrible deal?”

Nori shrugs. “Then we’ll have to live with it. But somebody needs to go down there – somebody they’ll actually listen to. If you want to, take Gloin – he’s good at discussing the financial side at a length that’ll bore everyone to sleep. Or your brother – he’s rather good a shouting down Dain’s nobles.”

“Everyone will hate us,” Fili mutters.

“They already do,” Nori corrects him with a dark smile, “We took back Erebor – and they hate us for succeeding at what they were afraid to even try. There is little sympathy to lose at this point.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori is plotting, Dain is unhappy and Bilbo is going to undermine the negotiations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for reading so far!

Gloin wonders how he ended up getting roped into this. He is a banker by trade, and while finances may be a subject of a degree of complexity, it is entirely different from court intrigue and spying.

Madness, he thinks, while Dain on the opposite end of the table heaves a sigh. “While I do understand that last night’s attack caused some uproar, I would have still preferred to meet the prince today.”

Gloin glowers the King of the Iron Hills. He shares the sentiment entirely, but that doesn’t mean he’ll accept this treatment. Especially since Fili told him that, as a distant relative, Gloin is to speak in his place.

“And yet Bilbo was not safe in the camp,” Gloin returns evenly, “I hope you understand that there is concern for the princes’ safety outside of the mountain.”

“And Balin and Thorin both remain unwell,” Dain says, an unhappy frown on his face, “Don’t misunderstand me, I am quite certain you are capable. But as it is negotiations are practically frozen, and winter is coming. I hope you see why I am not the only one eager to see some progress.”

“A sentiment we share,” Nori offers from the side, completely regarding propriety, “This is why we actually came here with a suggestion.”

Dain raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t address the fact that Nori isn’t supposed to speak so boldly to him. Instead he folds his hands and leans back. “Well, then let me hear it.”

Nori glances at Gloin, but it’s Nori’s plan, so Gloin is happy to let him explain it.

“As last night events prove, somebody or several somebodies are rather interested obstructing negotiations and seeing our company fail or die. I have several guesses as to their goal, but nothing concrete. Neither do we know who is actually behind it, which makes the situation all the more dangerous,” Nori clears his throat, “So what we need is intelligence.”

Dain nods slowly, obviously interested, and Nori nods to Bofur who has so far been silent. “I propose planting one of our own among your dwarfs.”

“How do you propose to do that? Your company is fairly well-known,” Dain returns.

Bofur shrugs. “Yes, well, they know me with my hat, mostly. Some dye and a different style of braids will do the rest.”

Gloin wonders if that will truly work – but then again, most dwarves are not great at paying mind to any faces beyond those they already know. Though for Bofur to be willing to dye his hair…

Dain frowns. “Well, supposing that will work – why tell me?”

“Because we need to plant him somewhere, obviously,” Nori returns without missing a beat, “Somebody who shows up out of the blue is suspicious. But somebody who has comrades vouch for him, somebody who’s clearly been there the entire time – that’s different.”

“In short,” Gloin adds, “We need you to pick a number of dwarves you have complete trust in and have them back Bofur’s story. Once that is done, he will try and get into contact with whoever is plotting against us.”

Dain remains silent for a long moment. Gazes from Gloin to Nori and to Bofur, gauging and thinking. Eventually, his lips quirk and he straightens.

“Alright,” he says, “I am rather interested in finding the troublemaker myself, so I will help you. But no word of this leaves this tent.”

Gloin nods, and Nori grins. “There’d be no point to this ploy otherwise?”

Dain returns the grin weakly, before he turns to Bofur. “And you are willing to do it? I’ll find some dwarves to back your story, but after that you will be on your own – and should they find out…”

“I don’t care,” Bofur interrupts rather darkly, “I want to find the one that is trying to kill Bilbo.”

A shiver runs down Gloin’s spine at the determination filling Bofur’s voice. The cheerful miner is almost completely gone, replaced by this driven creature – and it hasn’t happened overnight, either. Gloin clearly recalls how Bofur’s cheer had grown thin the more strained Bilbo’s smiles had become – last night had merely been the last straw.

***

Bilbo wakes with a pounding headache. His body throbs in sympathy, and he can’t help the small groan that falls from his lips.

“Bilbo?” somebody asks, “Bilbo, are you awake?”

He scrunches his brow, wants to say no, that he would like to be left alone, but cannot form a comprehensible answer. It feels as if his head is about to burst, his toenails seem to curl and his back is on fire.

“Bilbo.”

But the sweet darkness of oblivion recedes further and further and unwillingly Bilbo blinks, resigned to face reality. The light is painful when he opens his eyes, and his body heavy. He lies on a bed – and Gandalf stands at the side, bowed over him.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo mumbles. Something in the back of his mind starts moving – he hasn’t seen the wizard in a while, and last time –

He’d been attacked. The memories return abruptly and without warning, and Bilbo is left gasping for air as he feels the heat of the flames, sees the silent, ominous shape of his attacker – he’d run. Slipped on his ring and run without looking back, and somehow the memory is blurred, surreal. Barely more than a dream, but the ache on his back tells Bilbo that it had been painfully real.

Gandalf’s mien grows wary. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about your attacker?”

Bilbo finds his hands are trembling, and he grips the covers to stop them. For a moment, his voice is caught in his throat – and there is so much, so much pain and grief and hurt, and it’s all built up in his chest and he cannot bear it any longer – but then his lips move, and he realizes he can still take a step at the time.

“No… I mean I didn’t see him clearly. It was a dwarf, but well, I’m not even sure I’ve seen him before…” Bilbo swallows against the tightening of his chest. He probably has seen him, but there have been so many faces around him, always watching, always judging – always knowing he is the one who took the Arkenstone, the one who still bears –

“My pack,” he exclaims, and sits up abruptly, “My pack, where – “

The world is spinning, and Gandalf gently presses him back against the pillow. “It was with you – it’s right next to your bed.”

He doesn’t even realize he is gasping for air, until Gandalf tells him to calm down. When Bilbo’s sight clears he sees the rucksack sitting innocently on the bedside table. It seems undisturbed, but his heart flutters madly.

With trembling hands he reaches out, pulls the pack over and unlaces the strings holding it closed. He can’t bear to complete the thought haunting his mind. If the Arkenstone – if it – should it –

The world appears to be crumbling, but as he pushes his old, worn clothes aside, the soft glow of the gem hits his face. And with a deep sigh, Bilbo slumps back against the pillow.

It hasn’t been stolen. He hasn’t failed his dwarves.

Not again.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees blind rage on Thorin’s face, hears him roar and curse his name – feels fingers digging into his arm, feels wood under his back –

And he has to open his eyes, just to make sure he is not still in that terrible darkness, that it’s really over, that he is out and that –

The Arkenstone glows softly; beautiful even among Bilbo’s old and dirty clothes. He swallows – he is out of that cursed chest, but this is not over. Not as long as the stone is still in his possession.

Perhaps it would have been better had it been stolen. Perhaps the dwarves would have allowed him to leave, then.

When Bilbo raises his gaze, Gandalf is looking at him, both sad and concerned. The wizard inclines his head. “I’m sorry, Bilbo.”

But for what he is apologizing, Bilbo doesn’t know.

***

It is the sound of subdued conversation that greets Oin as he approaches the sickroom. He hesitates a moment – the voices are clearly Balin’s and Thorin’s, but it is not surprising that Balin at long last has woken up. Judging by their tone, their talk is not particularly happy, but neither sounds upset, so Oin enters.

He nods at Thorin before he turns to Balin, “It’s good to see you awake,” he says, “How are you feeling?”

As he approaches, he can see that Balin is still rather pale and could do with more rest. However, the spark is back in his eye and Oin knows from years of experience that it will be neigh impossible to keep him abed.

“Well,” Balin huffs, “Like an Oliphant ran me over. Thorin says poison was involved?”

“Aye,” Oin agrees, “And it took rather some time to get it out of your body. But there shouldn’t be any lingering effects – or do you feel strange?”

Balin purses his lips. “A bit tired, but I suppose that is to be expected. But I have to admit I’m curious – did you find who did it? And why … well, why did they not make certain it was fatal?”

It is a callous question, but Oin, as Balin, is aware that there are options at hand that would guarantee the death of the person in question. Balin’s curiosity is not entirely unfounded.

Oin shakes his head, and sets down a goblet next to Balin’s bed. “Drink this. And if you feel up to it, eat something later on. But we still don’t know who’s behind it, or why they chose to act the way they did.”

“Could they have also been behind the attempt on Bilbo?” Thorin asks.

Oin blinks. “You saw - ?”

“I was awake at that time,” Thorin inclines his head where he is sitting up on the other bed. His skin is still terribly sallow, and Oin thinks he is far from recovered, though it is no sickness of the body that truly ails him.

Words would do best, but Oin is not good with words, and the one whose words would help is himself laid up just a few rooms further down the corridor, healing from a gash on his back. He sighs.

“We don’t know. Nori said the Bilbo’s assailant is dead, though the body is burnt beyond recognition,” Oin tells him, and notices Balin push himself up on his elbows.

“Burnt?” Balin echoes, and from the dramatic paling of Thorin’s face Oin can tell their King did not know either. Dread coils in his stomach – perhaps further information will not help, but he is no skilled liar of even an acceptable diplomat.

“The attack set Bilbo’s tent on fire,” Oin says, “That’s how most of us noticed something was wrong. Kili, Dwalin and Nori went down, and by then the fire had been almost put out – and they also found Bilbo later.”

“Is he alright then?” Balin asks, a frown on his face.

“He’s healing,” Oin replies, because that is all he can say. In truth, Bilbo’s body might be healing, but he isn’t sure if being back in the mountain will do any good for his soul. And with their burglar already so fragile – he pushes the thought away.

It doesn’t help, for the air in the room remains gloomy. And there is much to grieve for – much to regret, but as a healer, Oin knows that sometimes these things must come at a later time. And not when lives can still be saved.

“Nori is looking into the matter,” he tells the King and his advisor, “And knowing Nori I think it’s only a matter of time until we know who’s behind this.”

***

Bilbo doesn’t quite know how long he spends bend over the Arkenstone. Gandalf takes his leave, but not before sharing the dire news that he must part, soon. He will come back to take Bilbo home –

But only in spring. There will be no crossing the mountains in winter.

Bilbo has known that all along. But hearing it spoken clearly, it shatters whatever fragile hope his heart was clinging to. He would cry, but the tears do not come – the pain in his heart is too much.

Part of him longs to take the pack and toss it far away – so that he may never have to gaze upon that accursed stone again. Distance himself from the heartache and grief it brought, and just –

He closes his eyes.

No, he tells himself, he made the decisions leading up to this situation. Others may have made bad decisions to, but that doesn’t make his own role in this mess any better. He will take responsibility for what he did and play his part.

No matter what it will cost, because he wants to see the kingdom restored. His dwarves happy, and at peace with their neighbors. With Dain and Thranduil and Bard and –

Bard.

Bilbo’s eyes widen and he gasps. He has completely forgotten their last meeting – forgotten what he promised Bard to do, and isn’t that terrible? Didn’t he swear to make sure Laketown has gold to send ships south? Hasn’t he –

As fast as possible Bilbo pushes back the blankets. The worlds tilts when he climbs out of bed, and his muscles ache, but he remains standing, and that is all that is important. His stomach rolls – however, it is empty and Bilbo can’t quite remember not feeling sick any more.

It doesn’t matter.

All that is important now is to make sure he doesn’t condemn Laketown to death in his forgetfulness.

***

Fili is nearly completely buried in papers. His leg is a dull throb, nothing compared to the whirlwind of numbers and words in his head. He has known that the crown meant responsibility – he just hasn’t expected this chaotic mess of reports and demands that all end up before him.

A knock at the door is then a welcome distraction.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Bilbo says, and Fili flinches. "You are always welcome – but shouldn’t you be abed?"

The hobbit terribly pale, and seems to be leaning onto the doorframe rather than to be standing upon his own feet. “I’m on the mend,” Bilbo says, and the smile he attempts is terrible.

Fili’s hair is standing, and he hurries to direct Bilbo to a chair next to the fire. With a grateful sigh, he sinks down, and Fili is terrified that the hobbit might just close his eyes and not open them again – he appears strained beyond all measure. It's more than weight loss, pallor and those dark shadows under his eyes, it's his entire demeanor - the spark that led him out of his door, inspired his wit against Smaug and even made him dare Thorin's wrath with the Arkenstone - that spark seems almost entirely gone.

Eventually, though, Bilbo draws a deep sigh and looks up. "I was thinking," he tells Fili, "You - that is the company - would you still allow me my share?"

"Of course," Fili replies before thinking. Then he recalls that Bilbo still holds the Arkenstone, that he does not truly know everybody's mind, and that this is not a decision for him to make. But his uncle told him, for now he is King. No matter if everybody else thinks him too young to rule.

Bilbo sighs. "Negotiations are not going anywhere - we are all just blocking each other.  And I had been talking to Bard yesterday – they need gold, otherwise they will starve this winter. As will we, probably."

“We have supplies,” Fili returns before he can think better of it. Bilbo merely raises and eyebrow. “Dain has supplies,” he says.

“Or Dain’s lords and generals,” Fili finishes, “I see.”

Bilbo nods. Shifts in his seat and swallows. “I, well – I know terms haven’t been negotiated, but – well, we do have access to the gold, don’t we? We could just pay them.”

The words echo ominously in the room. Next to them, the fire flickers merrily – another reminder how even firewood is not a commodity Erebor has in abundance. Fili has to admit, the suggestion scares him. The situation is so volatile, he cannot see it ending well.

But Bilbo's eyes plead with him to listen. "Take it out of my share if that makes things easier – I already promised it to Bard and Thranduil. That way it might not even impact on the final settlement. But we need food.”

Laketown’s survivors need food, Fili knows. Erebor can rely on Dain for a little while longer – Dain may not like them, but he will not let them starve. Even their would be assassins would elect another option over starvation.

And yet – Fili finds that he cannot condemn Bard’s men to death. Not when they all fought side by side, and nowadays they seem the most trustworthy of all the armies still assembled.

Fili swallows. He hides his fingers, so Bilbo doesn't see how they tremble.

It's bold. Dain - and especially his lords - will be furious. Thorin would not like it either – it is going to make negotiations with them downright impossible. And yet - with their direct access to the treasury and the option to keep Dain out if necessary - it may just work.

Slowly, very slowly, he nods. "Let’s do it."

**_tbc_ **


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's and Fili's plot does not go unnoticed. Dain has had enough of the secrecy and Bilbo and Thorin encounter each other accidentally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Am. Terribly. Sorry.  
> Seriously, the delay wasn't supposed to be this long. First work got in the way (and will again, I'm afraid, but I've gotten used to the schedule by now), then I typed up something over summer. And deleted it. >.

Kili stops to stare in surprise. Gloin, Dwalin, Nori and Bifur appear equally taken aback, though they do not drop the chests they carry.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Nori tells him, eyeing him critically while Kili’s gaze remains fixed to the chest. They’re plain, but he thinks they came from the treasury. Evening has come and gone already, though now his fatigue is banished.

“What are you doing?” he squeaks.

“Making things right,” Bifur declares in Khuzdul. The glow of determination in his eye, Kili notices, is shared by the other three as well.

“Is there gold in those chests?” Kili asks.

“Lad,” Gloin says, “If you’ve got questions, go and talk to your brother. I promise he knows what we’re doing. But we have to get going.”

He brushes past Kili, who turns wide eyes to the other dwarves. Their grim faces abruptly feel unfamiliar and frightening, and for a moment Kili wonders how far he can trust them.

“He’s right,” Nori affirms, from behind Kili’s back “And think about it. Even though negotiations are frozen, it doesn’t mean people stop moving. Don’t believe Dain’s people are waiting for the negotiations to conclude. They’ll be making their moves now. We’re just doing the same.”

Dwalin merely starts walking again. He doesn’t meet Kili’s eye, and dread coils in the prince’s stomach. But the words refuse to come, and with his leg still healing he can’t even quite hobble after them.

Staring at their backs, he wonders if everything just took a turn for the worse.

***

The light does not change inside the mountain as morning arrives. Bilbo sits on his cot, staring at the wall unseeingly. Sleep failed to come last night, instead fear has crawled deep into his heart.

The men and women of Laketown will be saved. His own companions will not depend on Dain for food either. Fili supported his suggestion, and yet Bilbo is afraid.

Should the lords and generals that already eye him with thinly veiled disgust find out about his involvement, should the elves learn of this move, they will all consider themselves betrayed. He should have asked Gandalf to take him along. Winter may be harsh, but if this comes to light Erebor will be more dangerous than the wilderness for him.

Bilbo coughs into his sleeve. His throat remains sore, and the cut at his back throbs. Even if dwarves and elves remain in the dark – they will have to tell Thorin. But before he faces that – and his heart shudders at the notion, blackness spreading from a point in his chest – he will have to ascertain the gold was delivered.

He doesn’t doubt Fili (rather: he does not want to doubt Fili). But he knows more than one party needs to be involved, and at this stage he isn’t certain who may disagree. Bilbo still believes the company has his best interests at heart – they’re fighting for the same goal, after all.

But he is no longer certain if his idea of best interests is shared by his friends.

With a huff, Bilbo forces himself to his feet. These spinning thoughts and crippling doubts have kept him awake all through the last night – always returning to the future, as he cannot think of the past – he will not allow them to further obstruct proceedings.

With a shake of his head he manages to dispel the lingering dizziness, and a fur coat from Erebor’s treasury will provide enough warmth during the excursion. It’s a gaudy garment – a purple so dark it’s almost black decked out with silver runes and sparkling diamonds – down in the camp it will draw far too much attention.

So he slips the ring onto his finger once more and the world melts into flickering grey. Bilbo’s stomach twists, though as he hasn’t eaten anything and Oin will probably yell at him. A humorless smile spreads over his lips as he carefully navigates the corridors leading out.

Oin will doubtlessly yell at him – he hasn’t even given Bilbo leave from the medical rooms. Just Bilbo’s own mad dash to Fili last night and then wandering to the next best room with Fili hovering next to him had effectively freed him from their healer’s watchful eyes.

Oin won’t be happy. But Oin also has other patients to care for.

Bilbo hopes he won’t bother sending people to look for him. He’d rather be on his own for now, he thinks and then the icy air hits him like a blast.

For a moment he stops and breathes. The air burns in his lungs, but it feels real. Dispels the taste of smoke that still clings to his hair and skin. Freezes the fatigue out of his bones, and it helps, even if he knows he will not feel whole for a long time to come.

So he forces his legs forward, and concentrates on the task at hand. He’ll have to seek out Bard and ask if the gold was delivered. Ideally without anybody watching – not when obviously somebody down in the camp plots to kill him.

A shudder runs down his spine.

It’s not unexpected, Bilbo admits to himself. Ever since he gave away the cursed Arkenstone his life had been on the line. Now, that the stone is back in his possession, it is more so than before.

Guarantee of peace, Bilbo thinks, and shakes his head. Only for everybody else. And only as long as he lives.

A second, even more terrifying thought rises.

What if whoever tried to murder him was not even after the Arkenstone? What if their aim had been to start a war?

***

“So we still know nothing?” Fili asks. The sun has barely risen, and his body aches for rest, even though the throbbing in his leg has dulled. As long as he remains seated, all is well, but Fili has always favored pacing.

At least Nori, seated on the other side of the desk, appears utterly calm. “Nothing. Bofur said there’s no rumors yet, nothing except a general sense of discontent. Some were apparently rather appalled, while others said it was well deserved. But no clues beyond the general sentiment.”

Fili frowns. “Do we know who was in favor of the attack.”

“Even if we did know the names, it wouldn’t help us,” Nori cautions, “Those that voice their agreement are not likely to be the ones involved – they’d make certain their tracks are covered. If it was a planned attack.”

“What do you mean?” Fili asks.

Nori frowns. “Nothing certain as of now. But while there’s certainly some plotting underway, the gold sickness could spread. And that would cause rather unpredictable mayhem.”

“Did Bofur say something to that point?” Fili leans forward. If they need to watch out for dwarves driven mad by gold – it will make the situation twice as dangerous, and Thranduil would have a field day.

Nori snorts. “No. But go to the camps, listen for a while, and the conclusion will come.”

Fili sighs heavily. “Anything else?”

“Bilbo’s attacker was a dwarf. The healers had a look at the remains, and that’s sure, though there’s nothing left to identify. Also, none of the camps have declared anybody missing,” Nori reports.

“Somebody’s covering up?” Fili asks.

Nori shrugs. “It’s possible. Might be too early to tell, since we haven’t completely figured just how closely the generals are keeping track of their people. But if nobody comes forward, we have to assume somebody’s covering their own tracks.”

***

Perhaps he should talk to Dain, Thorin thinks while Oin complains loudly. Their healer is also checking over Balin at the same time, who still looks a bit pale, even though he’s made loud demands to be brought his documents.

Oin shakes his head. “Stubborn, the lot of you,” he says, “Not a whole grain of sense between you all.”

“You’re related to us as well,” Balin remarks drily, but doesn’t protest Oin’s prodding.

“As you always so conveniently remember whenever one of you needs stitching up,” Oin grumbles and Balin chuckles. A faint warmth blossoms in Thorin’s chest and he wonders at it, wonders at the ease laughter comes even as the world around them falls apart.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out abruptly and sees Oin and Balin stiffen. Guilt assaults him – he ought to have kept his mouth shut, ought not to have disturbed the moment. They have no reason to forgive him, after all.

Before he can find more words, Oin turns to him with a deep frown. “What? Popped your stitches? Gotten yourself cut up again?”

“No, no, nothing of that sort. I’ve been here all along,” Thorin hurries to assuage. Oin remains skeptical, so Thorin continues, “I only meant to apologize for the troubles I have caused you. Both of you. And everybody else.”

Oin snorts and Balin smiles gently. “You didn’t poison me,” he reminds him, “You needn’t apologize to us – it’s not as if we have proven ourselves immune to the curse.”

“Indeed,” Oin agrees grumpily, “We’ve all been under the spell. It’s our mess as much as it’s yours.”

“Thranduil would have been intent on stirring up trouble one way or another,” Balin adds, “And we’ve both known the moment Erebor was reclaimed some of our former councilors would flock back, demanding to be reinstalled the moment the crossed the threshold.”

These talks now feel as if they had occurred a lifetime ago. But Thorin remembers discussing how to deal with those that did not dare to support his quest but would undoubtedly demand their share the moment the quest succeeded. What they did not plan for were war and gold sickness and a hobbit in the middle of everything.

“True, however…” he starts, when somebody knocks on the door. Oin frowns, but calls for them to enter and Ori steps inside, a stack of parchment clutched against his chest.

“Oin,” he begins, and casts an uneasy glance at Thorin, “I was wondering, do you know where Bilbo went? He’s not in his room.”

“He’s not?!” Oin echoes, and Thorin’s heart skips a beat. He remembers the prone form Dwalin carried in but two days ago, and feels fear surge in his chest.

“He wasn’t supposed to leave,” Oin grumbles, “Who talked to him last?”

“Gandalf visited yesterday,” Ori answers, and bites down on his lower lip, “To tell him he had to leave. After that, Bilbo went to see Fili on some matter or another – I don’t know where he went after.”

“Then did you – “

Ori interrupts Oin with a firm shake of his head. “Fili asked me to bring Bilbo to him.”

***

The layer of frost covering the upper slopes of the mountain has not reached the camps yet. But Bard looks grim, even as he confirms to Bilbo that they were able to send out a ship in the early morning.

“How long until they return?” Bilbo inquires, and Bard sighs. “Traveling to the closest trade hub and back will take at least a fortnight.”

“Will the stores hold out that long?”

“They ought to,” Bard returns and his expression gentles, “But I’m afraid if they will bring back enough. Right now Thranduil is helping us out with supplies, but I know he wants to return to his forest before winter truly sets in. And I’m afraid of what our little agreement may cause.”

Bilbo stiffens, and feels Bard study him intently. “Were you harmed in the attack?”

“Not badly,” Bilbo replies evasively. His ankle has given him trouble all the way down to the camps and the cut on his back smarts in the icy air.

“And yet they intended to take your life if I’m not mistaken,” Bard returns, “I would have not asked for your help had I known. I’m sorry.”

Grief has cut deep lines into Bard’s face, and Bilbo knows he doesn’t want to be responsible for seeing them grow any deeper. “I don’t think that attempt had anything to do with our agreement,” he replies, “I’ve given the dwarves enough reasons to dislike me already.”

“But what you did was for their own good,” Bard protests. He settles on a box, bringing his face down to Bilbo’s level and seeks out his gaze.

“And those that matter do understand that,” Bilbo replies evenly, though his heart isn’t so certain. He hopes they understand it now.

“That doesn’t make staying there very safe for you,” Bard replies, “As a matter of fact, where are you staying now?”

Bilbo sighs. “Erebor,” he returns. The old halls give him chills. He still can feel the phantom grip of Thorin’s hands around his upper arm. And the towering marble pillar watching silently have been seared into his mind.

“Is that safe?” Bard asks gently and draws Bilbo from his recollections.

“Yes,” Bilbo says. I hope so, he thinks.

“You shouldn’t be so quick to trust those that have allowed you to be so grievously harmed before,” another voice cuts into their conversation. Bilbo’s shoulder twinges as he turns to watch Thranduil stride into the tent, utterly unfazed as always.

“You look terrible,” Thranduil adds before setting his sword down in a corner and sinking gracefully onto a chair. Bard and Bilbo share a short look of exasperation before taking the remaining seats.

“I’m afraid the stress isn’t doing me any favors,” Bilbo returns politely.

“Of course,” Thranduil says, “But I believe you did not come out of that confrontation entirely unscathed. Has your healer looked at you? You’re welcome at my camp, if you’d like a second opinion.”

Bilbo purses his lips and gives Thranduil the smile he usually has reserved for Lobelia. “Thank you for the offer, but the injury has been treated.”

“So it has,” Thranduil inclines his head, “Have the perpetrators been apprehended?”

Bard leans forward, and Bilbo frowns. “Not that I have heard of it. But I did not inquire, either.”

“And I do understand you would rather not have anything to do it,” Thranduil offers, “But I am afraid for your safety, Master Baggins. I wonder if the dwarves can guarantee it.”

Bilbo’s hands clench, but he manages to suppress a flinch. They can’t guarantee it, he wants to shout, of course they can’t. They’re thirteen and Balin’s been poisoned and Erebor’s silent statues follow him into his nightmares.

“I wonder if anybody can,” Bilbo answers, “Erebor’s riches have bewitched many already.”

Bard sighs. “I’m truly sorry that you have to shoulder that responsibility, now.”

“So the Arkenstone escaped the trouble undamaged?” Thranduil asks, and Bilbo hates him right then for the cool calculation he can see behind those pale eyes.

“It did,” Bilbo answers and stands. He will not stay here any longer than necessary, not when Thranduil is trying to gain information for his own ends, noble they may be. “Dearly bought, I will admit, but as far as I am concerned, it was well worth it.”

“You see,” he adds with a sigh because he’s had enough of secrecy and his head is beginning to throb again, “All I want is to give my friends back their home. That’s why I left mine. That’s why I’m still here.”

He shrugs. “And now, if you would excuse me.”

***

“No,” Oin crosses his arms before him and glares at the dwarf in front of him. Dain returns it with a pleading, wide-eyed look that is more than out of place on a dwarf nearing two-hundred.

“But I’m family, cousin,” Dain says. The shadows underneath his eyes belie his cheerful manner – but Oin doubts any under the shadow of the mountain sleep well right now.

Oin huffs and nods at the entourage hovering at a respectful distance. “There isn’t even enough space for ‘family’ in there.”

“They can wait outside,” Dain returns immediately, “I know you don’t like to allow your patients to have visitors.”

Oin can’t quite suppress the memory Dain alludes to – once, many, many years ago a grumpy Oin had forbidden a very young Fili and Kili to see anybody, in hopes they’d recover from their brush with the chicken pox. Dain, had successfully snuck past Oin and needed treatment afterward himself.

He’d found the entire thing rather funny. Oin hadn’t been amused.

“And for a good reason,” Oin adds emphatically.

Dain tilts his head. “And I’m family. I heard Balin was poisoned – I’m worried for a very good reason, I think.”

“He’s recovering,” Oin returns, “He needs his rest.”

“Oin,” Dain says, “I know you’re very, very good at what you’re doing. But having been one of your patients – there is a point at which any more rest becomes counterproductive. And remember, we’re talking about Balin – have you known him to not be doing anything while awake? Please let me at least reassure myself he’s not started pulling out his own beard.”

But it’s not only Balin in the chamber Oin guards, and he doesn’t know if Thorin is ready to face Dain. They’ve always gotten along very well – Dain has helped pull Thorin from despair before. And their king has been on the road to recovery.

Though that is the problem, Oin thinks. Thorin is well up to face his cousin Dain. He isn’t quite certain if Thorin is prepared to meet King Dain of the Iron Hills in the capacity as King under the Mountain.

“I promise you I will inform you the moment he starts doing so,” Oin returns drily, “But I cannot let you in.”

He realizes two of the advisors behind Dain bristle. One puts his hand to his sword – for Oin, while related to Thorin, is not of high enough standing to refuse Dain entry. However, instead of forcing his hand, Dain’s lips twitch minutely.

“Very well,” he accedes with a sigh, “But remember my words when Balin goes bald.”

The cheer abruptly sounds forced, though the pitch of Dain’s voice is no different from before. For a moment Oin wonders just what part of Dain’s behavior so far was an act – then the spark reignites in Dain’s eyes.

“I’ll go and visit my favorite nephews instead!”

They’re not your nephews, Oin wants to add. But Dain has turned and is forcefully striding off. Oin is left uneasy – Fili and Kili are no match for one as shrewd as Dain.

***

Dain waltzes into the room with an ear-splitting grin on his face. “And how is my favorite nephew today?”

Gloin glances at Fili from the corner of his eye and notices the prince has risen in greeting, but the smile on his face is a brittle thing. He himself is content to incline his head and stay seated – the less he is drawn into this, the better.

At least Dain’s councilors have not entered the room, though they’re undoubtedly listening.

“Busy, I’m afraid,” Fili returns easily, while Dain draws him into a hug, “There is still much work to be done.”

“And don’t I know it,” Dain returns, letting go of the prince. He’s dressed officiously, Gloin notices, but not wearing his crown. “But our dear Thorin did pick a rather inopportune time to fall sick.”

Gloin swallows and keeps his eyes fixed on the parchment before him. Fili meanwhile sits back down and gestures for Dain to do the same. “I doubt there would have been an opportune time for it,” the prince returns easily, “Whether now or later, his responsibilities will always be pressing. And before he had to care for his people when nobody else would.”

Fili pretends to be nonchalant, but Gloin barely suppresses a wince. Balin truly needs to teach the prince something about subtly. At least, Dain remains unfazed, though his smile loses some of its brightness. It does, however, make his expression appear more honest.

“You are right, of course,” he returns, “I was merely thinking that without Thorin and Balin you now have a lot on your plate.”

“And have you come to offer me advice, Lord Dain?” Fili asks sharply, and Gloin decides he wants to be anywhere but here.

“No, Fili, I came because you are family and I was concerned. But apparently blood counts for little here as Oin would not even let me see Balin,” Dain replies and the smile has vanished. But he doesn’t sound angry, Gloin is relieved to note, he sounds exhausted. “If I offer you advice then it is only because I believe it may benefit you.”

Fili slumps in his seat, and suddenly looks much younger again. “Apologies,” he returns, “I meant no – “

Dain shakes his head. “No apology is necessary from you. I understand, and while I’m sorry that our family ties count for so little, it is not entirely unexpected or undeserved. And while the past is a different story entirely, I can see that you have to be concerned in light of what happened to Balin.”

Gloin slowly and silently lets go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. But he cannot completely relax. Dain sounds honest, but Dain always sounds honest unless he wants to sound dishonest.

“Regarding that,” Dain continues and lowers his voice, “There is merely one point I would like to see reaffirmed, if possible.”

Fili inclines his head. He’s pale, and obviously feeling unequipped to handle the dwarf he’s only known as a distant uncle as a politician.

“Thorin took sick so abruptly, I was wondering whether this was entirely normal. I mean whether his sickness, like Balin’s, was caused by a third party. If somebody meant to harm him,” Dain says darkly.

A shudder runs down Gloin’s spine. He doesn’t know if that is because he doesn’t know Dain’s agenda behind the question or because of the unveiled threat in his words.  
  
Fili hesitates minutely. “It’s a normal sickness,” he answers then, and Gloin wonders if gold sickness may be considered a normal sickness for a dwarf, “And its onset was not so sudden. If you remember, uncle appeared quite pale and distraught lately.”

“I had thought that to be due to the political uproar and the affair with the Arkenstone,” Dain says, but his voice is normal again and he leans back in his chair, “But again, these things might simply have not improved the situation.”

Fili nods and chooses not to expand further on the matter. Whether or not Dain believes him Gloin cannot say, and Dain is quick to redirect the conversation. “Actually, I was wondering how your supplies are holding up. I could send up a cart or two if needed. I forgot to ask Oin earlier, but if you need medical supplies, let me know, too.”

The conversation eases. Gloin makes certain additions to things needed in the mountain – though the need frighteningly little. There are thick fabrics, blankets and clothes that survived the dragon. And none of their company has much of an appetite these days, so their food stores are emptying slowly.

“Very well,” Dain concludes, “But please don’t hesitate to contact me if support is needed. In whatever matter.”

He smiles warmly at Fili, and Gloin wonders if perhaps they’re all doing Dain a great disservice. Gloin had never been particularly close to Dain, growing up – but everybody had spoken well of him. Perhaps King Dain of the Iron Hills is not the one they should be offering so much distrust, after all.

“We will,” Fili agrees immediately, but his words sound hollow.

Dain smiles brightly, rises and walks to the door. Before he opens it, he turns and casts a look over his shoulder. “Actually,” he says and his tone makes the hair on the back of Gloin’s neck stand, “I heard an interesting rumor earlier. This morning, before the sun came up, a boat from Laketown sailed down the Long Lake, heading south for trade.”

“Well, they need supplies,” Fili mutters.

“Indeed, but I wonder how they will pay for them,” Dain says and vanishes through the door.

As it falls shut, Fili turns a white face to stare at Gloin. “They know,” he whispers, “They know.”

And it was too much to hope for their little excursion to remain unnoticed. Nori had said so, and Dwalin had only remarked on the darkness concealing their features.

“Not the details,” Gloin replies cautiously, with an eye turned to the door. But it’s silent outside, and they’re speaking low enough for any listener not to understand them, “And they will have no way of proving anything.”

He forces himself to produce a smile. “After all, I’m still updating the account books of the great treasury.”

***

“So Fili’s the last person Bilbo talked to?” Thorin asks, when Dwalin runs up, shaking his head, “And nobody’s seen him since last night?”

“No, not a trace,” Dwalin mutters. “He should have never gotten involved in all of this.”

He casts a glare at Thorin, but the words transmit nothing Thorin hasn’t thought himself. If only he had held out longer, if he’d not even allowed the sickness to overcome him in the first place –

But the damage has been done, and so far he has done little to contain it.

“Where do we search?” Dori coughs, wiping dust from his face with a handkerchief, “All the easily accessible places are empty. He could be anywhere!”

“He could be outside, too,” Bifur adds in Khuzdul, “Maybe he only needed some daylight.”

And that makes perfect sense but Thorin cannot stop himself from worrying.

“We can’t look everywhere at once,” Dori protests at the same time that Ori asks, “Do we ask Dain for help?”

Balin frowns, but Thorin draws himself up. “Of course. We need to do everything to make certain he’s found. He’s a valued member of our company, after all.”

“And I’m glad to hear that,” a new voice calls out, and abruptly Bilbo appears in the middle of the room. Thorin’s heart skips a beat, but the hobbit appears unharmed, if too pale and unsteady on his feet.

“Truly, I am,” he repeats, and a brittle grin crosses his face, “You needn’t look for me. I was merely outside, visiting Bard.”

He turns towards Thorin, though the motion looks haphazard, off-balance. Worry rises in Thorin’s chest, as he takes in the glazed look of Bilbo’s eyes.

“Also, I’m afraid I have another crime to confess, your majesty,” he says to Thorin. His eyes stare past the King, and Thorin is frozen in place. He wants to say something, wants to make Bilbo look at him, wants to repair the damage –

But it’s obvious from the hobbit’s terrible pallor and the way he forces himself to remain upright, and Thorin wishes he could be so strong.

“I convinced Fili to let Bard have gold. Feel free to take it out of the amount I promised Bard or have me convicted as a thief – I care not. Do what you want as long I don’t have to watch you all starve.”

A wild smile crosses his face and as Bilbo sways dangerously, Thorin finally manages to break through the spell and step forward. But he barely raises a hand and Bilbo flinches. Blinks, and his eyes clear to reveal pain and fear behind the feverish daze.

“Bilbo…” Thorin mutters, a broken little sound in their cursed round, “I…”

The hobbit tears his gaze away. “No. I … I promised… I said I’d… I’d help you take back your home. And that’s what I’m doing. That’s all … all I ever wanted.”

_tbc_


	21. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oin has had enough and Thorin ralleys for long enough to gather the company. Together they devise a plan to adress the threats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less angst in this chapter.

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing?!” Oin shouts as he bursts from a corridor to see Bilbo swaying on his feet, Thorin frozen in grief with a hand reaching for the hobbit and Dwalin hovering helplessly, “You should not be out of bed! Back! Back to your beds, all of you!”

Bilbo twitches in surprise. He’s wearing a thick overcoat and Oin realizes the flush on his cheeks is not just from shouting at Thorin. “Are you all insane?” Oin shouts, and marches over to Thorin. Bilbo shouldn’t be out of bed, much less outside.

“Dwalin, get the hobbit,” Oin orders, “Thorin, you’re coming with me. And don’t tell me Balin’s wandering somewhere around the mountain, too.”

Of course, the empty room they return to confirms exactly this. Oin rolls his eyes at the sheer stupidity.

“Dwalin, do me a favor and fetch your brother,” Oin says and knows without turning around that Dwalin is hesitating. Eyes Bilbo and Thorin critically, and Oin understand – he himself is uncertain if having them both in the same room is a good idea. Bilbo still has nightmares and Thorin guilt has already almost devoured him.

But there is a ball of fury rolling in Oin’s own stomach and he sees no point in giving the same lecture twice. “You two,” he seethes, “You two of all people should realize just how incredibly stupid you are behaving!”

Thorin crumples and ducks his head to avoids Oin’s glare while Bilbo, positioned on the other end of the room, watches Oin with wide, frightened eyes. The flush has faded from his cheeks, leaving him pale.

“I have done my utmost – my very utmost – to make certain that at least here you will not be disturbed. Not by elves, not by men, not by Dain himself, and what are you doing? Marching out there as if you were on top of your game?” Oin shakes his head. “Thorin, I told Dain you were too sick to see him – he was here not hours ago – and you just stride out? What would you have told him had you come across him? You could’ve just given him the crown yourself!”

Thorin’s shoulders sink forward and a small part of Oin cautions him that perhaps yelling at Thorin may not help – self-recriminations have brought Thorin here, after all – so he gentles his voice when he turns to Bilbo. “And you, Master Baggins. You shouldn’t have gone outside in your condition – I can see that ankle’s swollen from here. But more than that – you know somebody out there is after you and as long as they haven’t been found, you shouldn’t leave the mountain alone.”

He sees Bilbo blink and swallow, and thinks that the hobbit at least has understood the point. Now, however, Oin knows he has to apologize unless he wants his two patients to add his own visage to their nightmares.

“Now, I – “

But Thorin interrupts him. “You are right,” he says, quietly but with a spark of determination that Oin has not heard in a long time. “You are right, Oin, I have been stupid. I apologize for forcing you to face the unrest I have brought upon everybody. Onto you, Oin, and, onto you as well, Master Baggins, though I believe no apology I extend can ever be enough.”

He casts a short glance over to Bilbo and Oin is ready to intervene in case anything happens. But Bilbo catches the glance, flinches, but says nothing and Oin breathes out slowly.

“Oin,” Thorin turns back to him, “May I ask you to summon the company?”

The healer in Oin wants to protest. Thorin is in no condition, and Bilbo too fragile to last through such a meeting. But when he actually looks over to Bilbo he sees the hobbit gnaw on his lower lip, fear warring with resolve on his face. And Thorin’s head may be bowed, but he appears to have found his inner strength in this.

It’s like hoping for a miracle, Oin realizes. But perhaps, after all the hardship, they will be granted one.

***

Bofur warms his hands over the fire. Now that the cold has settled in, leathers and armor barely provide enough warmth and discontent is slowly spreading through Dain’s camp. Rations have been cut, too, and ever since he arrived he thought the air felt tense.

As if everybody waited for something.

“They’re not negotiating today either,” a dwarf calls out and the dwarves around Bofur groan, “Dain’s just come back from the mountain.”

“I wonder what they’re doing,” another dwarf mutters, “You’d think they’d be able to get their heads wrapped around this. I want to go home sometime.”

Bofur’s neighbor, a dwarf with bright red braids, hums. “Or that they’d at least open the mountain to us. They’re what, thirteen? And we’re freezing our asses of, even though we’ve come to their help?”

“D’you think he’s still mad?” Somebody asks and Bofur glances up. He dimly recalls having seen this dwarf around before, even though he’s not particularly remarkable. “Oakenshield. I mean he’s not been seen quite a while.”

The dwarves around Bofur shift. “Somebody said something about his health? Apparently the battle did quite a number on him.”

“And the quest before that,” Bofur adds, before he can stop himself. But his words garner no reaction except for some nods. The soldiers – at least the few he met since Dain installed him here – have so far expressed no outright disrespect toward the company. But, Bofur suspects, it is not necessarily them begrudging the company their success either.

“Perhaps,” the red-haired dwarf agrees with shrug, “Still, I’m a bit annoyed that we’re sitting out here when there’s an empty mountain right here.”

“Well, I heard the gold’s cursed. It’s why nobody’s supposed to enter the mountain.” Their latest arrival pulls over a box and drops down on it.

“Yet Oakenshield’s Company went in?” a dwarf who remained silent so far speaks up.

“Apparently that was due to the fact that somebody torched the traitor’s tent,” Bofur’s neighbor puts in, and Bofur flinches. There’s no heat behind the word, and yet the soldiers keep calling Bilbo a traitor. “They’re afraid the princes might be next.”

“Wait. Is that why there’ve been no negotiations? Did somebody attack the King?” Somebody asks and receives only shrugs in reply. Their latest arrival – the dwarf who knew Dain’d returned empty-handed – spreads his hands. “They say he’s sick, as is his advisor, so others have been treating on their behalf, though it’s dubious they’re actually in any position to make decisions.”

“Maybe they’ve all gone mad,” the red-haired dwarf suggests with a chuckle, “Dragon-sickness, y’know.”

Uneasily the others chime in, though Bofur keeps his head lowered. It’s not an unreasonable assumption on the part of these dwarves. Even if he wishes he had a way to dispel it, though Nori had insisted he should only watch and learn.

“Actually,” the dwarf on the other side of the fire says, “It does make sense. Why, after all, did the traitor hand over the Arkenstone unless Oakenshield was incapable to negotiate? I do wonder, would Oakenshield make a good king? Won’t he and his company, if they’ve all fallen to madness, not bring about the next disaster?”

A smile that turns Bofur’s stomach spreads over his lips. “Isn’t it already happening? Winter is here, the mountain is shut to us and supplies are running out.”

Bofur swallows against the uneasiness in his chest. He casts a glance at the dwarf – dark-hair with strands of grey, his beard well-taken care of and not elaborately braided. His insignia mark him as a member of Lord Fror’s host, and Bofur knows that Fror has been among the ones most outspoken against Bilbo.

Was Fror behind the attempt after all?

“Hmm, no, no, that doesn’t add up at all,” their latest arrival remarks, “You know, they saw some of the company carry gold from the mountain. Gave it to some of the Lakemen who sailed south before the sun was up. I don’t know if all the company’s been involved, but at least some do not plan to let us all starve.”

Nobody was supposed to know, Bofur thinks and curses in silence. Even if it dismantles the dragon-sickness hypothesis, it will make the company’s position in negotiations even more precarious.

He casts a glance up and places the armor of the other dwarf as associated with Lord Kham. Nori will want to know, and everybody else must be warned. If Dain’s generals know the company has been trading with the Lakemen, they may feel pressured to take action.

***

Bilbo heart flutters wildly in his chest and by the time the company has all gathered, cold sweat beads his forehead. Dwalin stands next to the cot he is seated on, a silent guard. Kili is on his other side and Ori next to him. They are not blocking Thorin from view, however, and now that Bilbo looks at him he can see the strain of these last days all too clearly on the King.

But he cannot look for long. A part of him still recoils in horror, a horror no degree of rational understanding can resolve.

Balin has settled in a chair next to Thorin and Fili on a cot nearby. He looks haggard and unhealthy, and Dori hovers next to him. Bifur and Bombur awkwardly search for places to sit themselves and when Gloin comes in last, he takes a look around before closing the door.

“Or will Gandalf come?” he inquires.

Fili shakes his head. “Gandalf left yesterday. He was called away on urgent business – I do not know why.”

Gloin grumbles under his breath and Bilbo feels like agreeing. He may not have felt particularly charitable to the wizard lately, but Gandalf may have helped them in negotiations. As it is, their standing is fragile, and their company – when he looks around – even more so.

“Bofur isn’t here yet,” Ori remarks quietly.

“He won’t come,” Nori replies, “He’s being our eyes and ears down in the camp. Dain agreed to help us plant him.”

“What?” Balin asks sharply, and Bilbo realizes Thorin and Balin are just as surprised as he is. Bofur, a spy?

Fili swallows. “Negotiations destabilized more and more and after the last attempt, we – that is Nori, Gloin and I – thought we had better keep a watch-out in case anything is being planned again.”

Balin takes an audible breath and sits back in his chair. “Have you found out anything?”

Fili sighs. “Nothing so far.”

Bilbo feels his own shoulders slump and despair rise in his chest. Out there several hosts lead by cunning, experienced and well-rested leaders plot against them – how ever should they preserve?

Thorin is the one to straighten up. “It is not as if we do not know nothing, however,” he says gently, “Some of us –“ his lips quirk up in a shadow of a wry smile – “remember some of these dwarf lords and advisors from long ago.”

“Aye,” Balin agrees and Nori tilts his head, “And as long as they can’t proof any of our failings their own honor won’t permit them to move openly against us.”

The entire company flinches and Nori rolls his eyes at them.

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine. Nori is right, he thinks and the though is stronger than his own terror. It’s like color bleeding back into his world.

“What proof are they looking for?” Kili inquires, looking uncertain.

“Dragon-sickness,” Balin replies, “If they can successfully accuse the company of having been sick with it, it will annul all of our claims.”

“Oh,” Kili nods, “That is why –“

He glances over to Bilbo who draws a shuddering breath. “Fear not,” Bilbo tells them and his voice is hoarse, but loud, “I signed on this in order to help you win back your home. I have little interest in seeing Dain or anybody else on the throne – no matter how good a ruler he may be.”

Nori inclines his head slightly while Kili’s eyes widen. Ori tilts his head contemplatively. “If we’d go back to the books?” he suggests, “Dragon-sickness and gold-sickness are two different things. We might be able to –“

Oin shakes his head. “The old differentiations won’t work.”

“And the moment you admit to gold-sickness, they’ll name it dragon-sickness and be done with it,” Nori adds.

“Also,” Balin chimes in, “Thranduil, I believe, is looking for any indication of any sort of sickness of the mind. He doesn’t care what it is, the moment he sees proof he will support another on the throne.”

Fili grimaces. “Though I doubt he’d like to have people like Lord Fror or Janvi in his immediate neighborhood.”

“Nobody likes them,” Kili mutters, “I think even Dain wants to get rid of them.”

Balin hides a grin behind his hand, though Dwalin snorts out loud and Gloin chuckles. Bilbo feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

“That’s what I was wondering,” Ori speaks up when the air has cleared, “Why are they being so obstinate?”

“Khazâd,” Bifur mutters and earns another round of chuckles. Dwalin leans forward and whispers “because they’re dwarves” to Bilbo who feels the ice in his chest beginning to melt.

He’s missed this, he realizes. And, when he glances around, the others did, too. They are, after all, the company. They’ve weathered trolls, orcs and elf dungeons.

Balin takes a deep breath and straightens in. “At this point, much is conjecture,” he begins, “But as far as I remember all of them – I do not believe Dain has serious ambitions as to Erebor. Thorin?”

Bilbo stiffens automatically when Thorin clears his throat, even though madness no longer distorts his voice. “I doubt it, too. But I believe Dain is weary of the dragon-sickness. His father was consumed by it, and he is wary. Rightly so.”

“Actually,” Ori chimes in, and Bilbo sees Dori frown. He himself is surprised at how outspoken their scholar is – but then, their journey has changed them all and Ori spent much time in the library. “The incurability of dragon sickness is nothing but a myth.”

Dwalin raises his eyebrows and Gloin tilts his head. Ori clears his throat. “I looked through the accounts. Of the deaths connected with the sickness, I’d gauge at least a third to be suicide upon realizing the impact of their actions. And there are two documented cases of dwarves coming shaking off its grasp, atoning and moving on to live long and prosperous lives.”

“Unsurprisingly,” Ori adds with a grim smile, “These accounts were difficult to track down. For after the shook of their sickness, these nobles did nothing outrageous enough to be noted in the chronicles. I fear our own approach to history has created that unfortunate myth.”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. This – he cannot yet fathom what it means, his heart is too afraid to hope, and Dori is the one to step forward. “You must take that up with historians, then. I fear, you’ll have a hard time convincing those nobles. You know how they are!”

Ori nods, but doesn’t deflate. “I was merely thinking – if they accuse us of what essentially is nothing but a made-up horror story, are we not then required by responding with our own fiction?”

While Dori gapes and Bilbo marvels at just how scary innocent little Ori has become, Gloin laughs. “Best suggestion I heard in a while, lad. So, what tale do we tell them?”

“With your permission, of course, Master Baggins,” Balin cautions, and they all deflate.

“Certainly,” he hurries to nod. A part of him is uneasy about condemning himself to keep the truth about what happened a secret.

As if he’d read Bilbo thoughts, Thorin speaks up. “Do not let this stop you from seeking justice whenever you like, Master Baggins. We have much to answer for where you are concerned, I most of all.”

“Indeed,” Balin agrees, while Bilbo’s mind spins, “You needn’t support our tale if you do not want to. We won’t make you sign anymore contracts, Master Baggins.”

“It’s Bilbo,” he says before he can stop himself. He doesn’t know if he wants Thorin to use his name, but sitting here, listening to them makes him remember their shared friendship. “And, well, since I had to answer the question already – so far I told Dain and Thranduil I did not know about that … that stone’s value.”

His voice cracks. “Which is why I bartered it away without telling you.”

“Dain knows we were at loggerheads with the elves and men ever since Thranduil showed up demanding payment,” Balin says, “I believe the missive was short?”

“And didn’t you make a point that we’d be willing to pay the Lakemen once Thranduil withdrew?” Gloin suggests.

Thorin gives a tentative nod and Oin shrugs. “So, there’s your narrative: that pointy-eared elflord’s at fault.”

“A nice, dwarfish tale,” Kili adds with a grin, “That should satisfy them.”

“And hopefully it will,” Balin says with a sigh, “But we already know some of them aren’t exactly playing fair.”

The air grows heavier. A pounding headache sets in behind Bilbo’s eyes as he begins to feel the exhaustion gaining on him. His heart doesn’t feel quite as hollowed-out, but his body is starting to wear.

“While I don’t like guesswork,” Nori eventually speaks up, “My suspicion is that we’re dealing with different fractions. Thranduil’s only interested in stirring up trouble and Bard wants to make sure nobody starves – we’ve got a tale for Thranduil that he won’t like and Bard’s sent a ship south with a nice bit of gold.”

“When did that happen?” Balin inquires with a raised eyebrow.

“This morning,” Nori answers with a toothy grin, “Clandestine operation, really.”

However, the glance he directs towards Thorin is asking, Bilbo realizes. Fili seems to notice it too, so he straightens his shoulders. “I authorized it,” he admits.

His pallor is terrible.

“And I suggested it,” Bilbo hears himself announce.

Balin raises both eyebrows and Nori shakes his head. “Lord Fror and his friends won’t like that – if they find out.”

Dwalin stiffens, but Nori waves his hand. “I’m not certain if it matters,” he offers bluntly, “There’s already been an attempt, and a number of Dain’s generals have been arguing to declare Bilbo’s contract void or have him tried for betrayal.”

Bilbo’s heart drops. Blackness swirls in his chest, and when his vision returns he finds Kili watching him in concern. On the other side of the room, Thorin has gone pale.

“I believe Lord Janvi was lobbying for this,” Nori mentions, “Lord Fror made no mentions of justice, but as far as I know he’d do anything to keep the gold out of Thranduil’s hands. There’s Lord Kham – I believe Bilbo encountered him already – who was more interested in whether or not any of us were sick with the dragon-sickness. As was Loni, who, I believe, is quite close to Dain.”

“Lord Himril, too, is among Dain’s most important lords,” Balin offers. “Himril, Fror, Kham, as well as Teitur and Imundur are his five most important lords. They occupy all the important posts, provide many of the soldiers and the supplies. Whether he likes them or not, Dain cannot make a decision without them.”

“Loni, however,” Balin continues and Bilbo can observe the afternoon is taxing him. He has not yet recovered from the poison, then, “Is an advisor with no titles of his own. There are also Stigur and Heptar.”

“And Mjothi and Althin are his generals,” Dwalin offers, “Though while they are obviously cunning on the field, I doubt they have ambitions on the Lonely Mountain, either.”

“What about honor?” Nori questions, “Would they try to take the law into their own hands if they felt the situation wasn’t addressed adequately due to politics?”

Dwalin frowns. “Mjothi, no. It has been years, but he has always concentrated on executing orders and winning his battles. Althin, however, I do not know very well.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him then,” Nori mutters, “And you, Bilbo, will not leave the mountain on your own. There is a reasonable chance some mad dwarf out there believes they need to avenge themselves – do not give them the opportunity.”

The wound on his back aches in echo, and all Bilbo can do is nod. His fingers feel cold, and at the moment he misses his bed most of all.

“What about the others?” Nori questions, “Obviously, Dain’s generals are the ones to benefit most from Dain’s ascension. What about the advisors?”

“Loni is the one most invested in cultural integrity,” Balin provides and Bilbo swallows drily when he recalls that unfortunate encounter. He never managed to work out who was more unpleasant, Lobelia or Loni.

“Stigur handles the economic aspects and Heptar, I believe, collects intelligence and oversees diplomatic relations,” Balin finishes. “I’ve known neither of them for very long, though.”

Gloin clears his throat. “I’ve worked with Stigur. Seemed like a decent fellow, then.”

“We’ll keep an eye on all of them,” Nori decides, “Most on that Loni, though. Might be the type we’re looking for. Now, those lords… we’ve established they all stand to gain a fair bit should the crown fall to Dain. What I do wonder however – who would have a motive to remove Balin from the negotiations?”

Balin shudders and Bilbo notices Dwalin stiffen next to him. All in all, he thinks, it is luck that they’re all sitting here.

“Balin knows most of the lords,” Ori offers, “Also, he’s been doing most of the negotiating. If they were certain they could find proof of dragon sickness, they’d still have make certain their claim wouldn’t face too much resistance.”

A glum silence descends as they all mull individually over the implications. The previous euphoria has faded, Bilbo realizes, and exhaustion is spreading. Beneath their feet, the ground is thin and precarious.

“So we have several parties to watch out for?” Fili asks, as he pulls himself upright in his seat, “Those wanting the crown to Dain and those obsessed with seeing justice done in regards to Bilbo?”

Nori tilts his head. “Possibly. There’s still a chance the attempt on Bilbo was meant to unsettle negotiations – he is the personified guarantee of peace, after all. Also, he guards the Arkenstone. And I believe we all do understand the ideas the stone and this gold are capable of summoning.”

Bilbo swallows, and Kili raises his head. “So what do we do? Wait and watch?”

Nori shrugs. “Not only,” he replies, “I believe whoever is working against us wouldn’t be happy should negotiations progress. Also, handing over gold to the Lakemen, while possibly angering them, is a good step. Bard has no reason to work against us.”

“Regarding the Lakemen,” Dori says, “I have a suggestion: Dale is inhabitable still and it’s freezing – what if we open the mountain to them?”

“Loni will have an apoplexy,” Gloin announces cheerfully and Balin’s eyes light up. “We do not have an army, but I believe the men would rather support those offering them shelter. I like the idea. Thorin?”

All eyes turn toward their king. Thorin takes a deep breath before facing them. Grief and guilt have worn deep lines into his expression and dark shadows surround his eyes. But his voice is clear when he speaks.

“Invite the Lakemen,” he announces, “And find those white gems. We win over the men. We pay off the elves. We may not have an army or weapons – but we do have gold.”  

_tbc_


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company sets their plan into motion, Bofur picks up a trace. And Thorin and Bilbo finally manage a longer conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this chapter has a somewhat transitionary feel to it, I do hope the Thorin-Bilbo interaction is sufficiently entertaining. Meanwhile, the end is coming closer.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up,” Oin reprimands Bilbo as he gently but firmly pulls him along, “You need to rest. What were you even thinking, traipsing down to Laketown and back?”

It was necessary, Bilbo thinks to himself but is too tired to protest. Necessary and he does not regret it, even if his head aches fiercely. At least the dwarves now plan to take action.

Oin sighs and shakes his head. “You’re as bad as the rest of them,” he complains to the empty corridor, “But truly, you need to look out for yourself. It … is a noble thing what you are doing for us, all of us. But, laddie, I, and I think most of the others, don’t want it to cost you your good health. We’d rather muddle through some unrest – you’ve been through enough already, and we know it.”

The words manage to penetrate the fog filling Bilbo’s head and a part of his heart warms. And yet he can’t quite find himself agreeing whole-heartedly with Oin, even if he’d nothing rather than hide in a corner until the world had regained its equilibrium. But there are other aspects to the problem, other responsibilities Bilbo does have, though he can’t quite recall them through the pounding in his head.

“Get some sleep, first,” Oin tells him, directing him into a room Bilbo faintly recognizes, “And then get some food. You need both.”

He’s slept here before and had nightmares. But right now, the covers feel softer than his down blankets back in Bag End, and the oblivion of sleep beckons.

***

Responsibility wraps around Thorin’s shoulders like a cloak, its weight familiar and heavy. It does not dispel guilt or fear, but the feeling of powerlessness starts to vanish. His footsteps echo through the corridor as he navigates his way toward the throne room the following morning.

Kili, Fili and Gloin have gone to look for the white gems. Balin, Dori and Bifur set out to study the state of Erebor’s living quarters. He needs to meet with Dain soon and preferably Bard as well. If he’s lucky he can avoid Thranduil, though.

Thorin snorts lightly. Not that Thranduil will allow that. He doubts even returning the white gems will stop Thranduil from challenging his right to rule. At least Thranduil is unlikely to conspire together with some of Dain’s lords, even though their goals coincide.

“Nori,” he calls to the empty air, and the shape of the other dwarf reliably detaches itself from the shadows, “How likely is another attack?”

Nori frowns. “Difficult to predict, but I’d say, very high. Especially if we’re taking actions that they won’t like.”

“And for whom do you think the danger is the greatest?”

“All of us,” Nori replies with a shrug, “It depends their intentions. If it is to scare us, any of our group will do. If they believe they can further a certain claim or are pursuing a strategy, they’ll likely pick their targets.”

“And whom would they pick?” Thorin inquires warily.

“You,” Nori returns easily, “If their goal is truly to see Dain on the throne of Erebor, you posit the foremost obstacle. Fili’s claim can be challenged more easily, but not yours. Unless, of course, they find proof to accuse you of being mad with dragon sickness.”

Thorin flinches. “Is there – proof?” he inquires hesitantly.

Nori gives him a sharp sideways glance. “What proof there was has been destroyed, you know that. However, they may not need physical proof. Word may be enough for them to construct a challenge.”

Bilbo. Thorin closes his eyes. He cannot in any good conscience ask the hobbit to forget the wrongs committed against him. Not when Bilbo looks as if the slightest gust of wind might shatter him completely.

“Let them come,” he tells Nori, “Your brother has looked at the records. We have alternative options to meet such a challenge.”

Nori raises an eyebrow, but nods in silent approval. “Very well. Just be prepared for underhanded tactics, too.”

Thorin closes his eyes and nods. “It’s not as if they hadn’t already.”

“True,” Nori agrees, “Bofur reports there are no news from the camp. The men are waiting for something to happen, however.”

“Yes,” a new voice interrupts and Thorin looks up to see Balin march toward them. Still too pale, but sure on his feet and with a staple of documents under his arm. “And before they cause some incident, we should give them something.”

Nori’s face gives away nothing, so Thorin asks. “What do you have in mind?”

Balin’s mouth twitches. “Something long overdue and only a formality, but it’ll help fortifying your claim. The coronation ceremony.”

***

“You are sure of this?” Gloin asks as he and Dwalin accompany Fili down toward the camp. The prince nods, and immediately has to reach up to steady the crown on his head. Balin and Dori spent much of the morning choosing clothes for the occasion. As the crown prince, Ori had argued, Fili needs to look the part – necessary to fortify their narrative.

Dori had nodded in agreement and added that if they wanted to convince any onlooker – be they dwarf, men or elf – of their narrative, they needed to play their roles down to their costumes. Fili had taken the announcement with a weary sigh, though Gloin knows that the still healing injuries complain under the weight of the garments.

“Very,” Fili confirms and his breath fogs in the icy air. A fine layer of snow covers the slopes of the mountain. Winter has arrived.

“What if they don’t accept?” Gloin wonders.

“They’ll change their tune soon,” Dwalin growls, “They don’t want to freeze.”

“And I don’t think Bard believes the dragon-sickness tale anyway,” Fili adds, “At least, I think we can convince him it’s passed.”

Gloin nods. It stands to reason that Bard is most likely to ignore accusations levied against Thorin and the company if they extend generous offers. With Laketown in shambles they need everything and even the elves can barely provide them with enough provisions – and those will not keep them warm once the winter storms come down from the north.

He casts a glance northward – the sky there feels darker, though the clouds hang deep today. It is likely it will snow again during the night, then.

They make their way to Bard’s tent without too much of a hassle. Gloin realizes that dwarves and men watch their little group attentively. It probably will not take long for the news to spread, and he hopes Bofur will be in position to warn them should anything untoward be planned.

“This … is somewhat unexpected,” Bard greets them, “I’m afraid I have nothing to offer, though I could ask my son to fetch some salted pork from the stores.”

Fili shakes his head. “We have no intention of burdening your stores,” he tells Bard, “Nor taking up any more time than necessary, I understand you are busy.”

Bard sighs. “Rebuilding Dale will take years. And I am afraid we may barely get the great hall in shape to spend the winter there.”

“Regarding the winter,” Fili returns smoothly, “I come with an offer.”

Bard straightens up, and Gloin holds his breath. There are deep lines on the bowman’s face, and he appears thinner than when they first met. Smaug and the battle have left deep traces on all of them.

“I make this offer on behalf of my uncle the King, who has yet to recover completely from his injuries. But he has given his full consent to it, as has every other member of the company,” Fili states and though he has not yet Thorin’s grandeur, Gloin can see the makings of a very fine and skilled ruler.

Perhaps even more importantly to Bard, there is honesty in Fili that Thorin has already lost.

“We would like to offer the people of Laketown shelter in Erebor for the winter.” Fili’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. Bard’s reaction is just as minuscule – his eyebrows rise and his mouth opens slightly.

It does take him a moment to find his voice again, and Gloin can see the wheels turning in his head. “That … is a very generous offer. May I ask how it came to be?”

What changed, is what Bard wants to know, Gloin realizes.

Fili inclines his head. “Nothing,” he answers smoothly, “We merely had not yet time to discuss the option before.”

“Why are you offering this to my people?” Bard asks, “What about the other dwarves? Are not some of them originally from Erebor?”

“Some of them may stay as well, but Erebor is large and Smaug did not damage the living quarters too much. Any true resettlement of Erebor however is unlikely to begin so soon – even those here now that originated from the mountain may wish to return together with their families rather than just stay.”

Bard nods thoughtfully at Fili’s words. “It is a generous offer,” he repeats, “Though I must discuss it before I can give you an answer. And I would like to be certain that this will not earn me any animosity with Lord Dain. I would rather not get on his bad side.”

Gloin feels his own lips quirk in response and Fili grins. “A wise decision,” he replies, “And I did not intend to force you to answer at once. Take your time making your decision.”

“Though you may want to keep an eye on the weather,” Gloin cannot stop himself from adding.

Bard grimaces. “Aye, I will keep an eye on that indeed.”

***

Staying in Dain’s camp, Bofur learns quickly, is primarily boring. Now that the battle has been fought and no new on lingers on the horizon, the dwarves can only opt for gambling and rumors to spend their time, and gambling is firmly disapproved of. Though Bofur wonders if not gambling might be the more favorable option.

So far the rumor mill is quite concerned with the question why no order to return to the Iron Hills has been given yet. Two popular answers have emerged, one suggestion a battle with Thranduil’s forces – also still here to everybody’s confusion – is at hand, another stating they are waiting to see Thorin crowned King under the Mountain.

The first rumor is rather unsurprising, Bofur thinks. Dwarves will be dwarves and the continued presence of Thranduil's host is grating. The mood in general is fairly volatile - a sub current of tension lies in the air and makes the soldiers restless. A majority, as far as Bofur can tell, will be glad to see Thorin crowned and leave for home as fast as possible. Very few of the soldiers seem to have any ambitions on Erebor - if anything, they wouldn't mind a generous compensation.

Which may be a sensible suggestion, should winning over the majority of the soldiers be helpful to their cause.

In the meantime, he'll join the others in the great lunch tent. Mealtimes constitute a highlight of the day as there is so little to do. Inside of the tent it is warm, and Bofur cannot say he minds the hearty fare Dain's supplies provide.

"Can I sit here?" He asks a random table of dwarves. They bear the insignia of Lord Fror, apparently slightly higher in the chain of command he receives a somewhat reluctant welcome.

One immediately rises. "Lord Kham wanted to speak with me. I'll see you later."

And with that he stalks off. Bofur sets down his plate and casts a questioning look at the remaining two dwarves. "I didn't mean to cause offense," he offers.

The two exchange a glance, before the white-haired dwarf shrugs. "You didn't. He's just in a mood. Don't mind him."

Bofur chuckles. "who isn't these days?"

It wins him two smiles of commiseration. He takes a bite of the stew, before opening his mouth again. "My unit's been mumbling about moving out all week. They're pretty sure we're done here."

"Who knows," the other dwarf replies, while the white-haired one shakes his head. "Unlikely, though. At least Fror has no intention to leave before a King's been crowned."

Bofur raises both eyebrows. "But that might take a while?"

The first one frowns. "Well, if Oakenshield's to be King, probably."

The hair on the back of Bofur's neck rises. He takes another hearty bite, pretending to be unfazed. "You think Dain will take the crown?"

"It's likely, isn't it? Oakenshield's mad - they've all gone mad if rumors are true," the dwarf shrugs and pushes his plate back, "it's a pity, but if they're mad, they can't rule Erebor."

His white-haired companion nods. "Tragic, really, but unsurprising. It was a mad endeavor in the first place and it is truly a wonder that it succeeded. And even if they cannot rule, I believe Dain will make certain they will lack for nothing."

And because Bofur cannot stop himself, he asks: "Even the burglar?" In his memory he sees the pale, gaunt shape of Bilbo, wraith-like and silently accusing them all of their failings.

"Justice must be done," the white-haired dwarf insists, "Though exile might be the best solution. He is not a dwarf, after all, and I do not know if his kin may not swear revenge."

Unlikely, Bofur thinks, but this he will not tell. The other dwarf meanwhile leans forward. "Do you know anything on the matter? I must admit, I am a bit confused by it all."

And Bofur, who's heard from Nori about the narrative Ori intends to spread, realizes his chance has arrived. So he shrugs and grins. "Well, nothing certain, but I believe the fact that they agreed to let him come back into Erebor with them suggests that whatever happened couldn't have been so bad."

"He stole the Arkenstone!" The white-haired dwarf exclaims.

"Apparently he did not know its value beyond it being an opportunity to stop a war," Bofur answers, fighting to keep his voice even. He does not like the tone of conviction in the other dwarf’s voice.

“And yet he stole it and betrayed the King,” the other says, “It doesn’t make a difference if he knew its worth or not.”

Bofur tells himself to stay calm – these dwarves are under Fror’s command. Nori will be interested to know these views. But he will not sit quietly and listen; he will try and plant Ori’s narrative where he can.

“To Oakenshield it seems to,” he answers with a shrug. And Bofur finds the third member of their round nodding along. “It’s all guesswork,” that one sighs, “Guesses and rumors. I wish we’d gotten more information. This way all it suggests that something is seriously wrong.”

And, Bofur notes to himself, that is another point Nori needs to know and Thorin or somebody must address.

***

"Dori, are you there?" Bilbo calls and before Thorin can say anything, the door opens. "Dori?" bilbo repeats, before he turns and sees Thorin standing in the middle of the room, a new robe wrapped around his shoulders.

Dori has vanished to the treasury in order to retrieve more fabrics and gemstones. Balin had insisted they needed to go through with an official coronation soon. With the ceremony their detractors would likely lose ground, so Thorin had wearily agreed and ended up with Dori in order to prepare clothes.

The robe around his shoulders is dark and interwoven with golden threads. It is heavy, almost suffocating, and makes him look like a different person. Bilbo wavers, and Thorin feels his heart clench at the sight how Bilbo has to visibly struggle to stand his presence.

"Thorin," Bilbo eventually manages, "This is for the coronation?"

Thorin nods. "Balin informed you as well?"

Bilbo sighs. "Yes. He told me to speak about it with Dori, though he didn't tell me why. Am I needed for the ceremony?"

His voice wavers, though Thorin's heart relaxes slightly. The hobbit remains on the other side of the room and makes no move to come closer, but doesn't look scared out of his wits. And their conversation approaches normal.

It's like a fragile artwork, suspended on a silken spring. And Thorin fears one wrong word, one wrong gesture will destroy it.

"Probably," Thorin replies, "Well, if you do not wish to attend, we will not force you. But without you we would not have reclaimed this mountain, and I believe on that day this contribution ought to be honored."

Bilbo blinks. "I thought because of the Arkenstone - doesn't it need to be returned officially?"

Thorin sighs. A part of him wishes nothing but to cast the stone back into the deepest chasm of the mountain. "We could do that at another time."

Certainly, his detractors will have a field day if the stone is not in its place during his coronation. They may also go so far as to declare his ascension invalid. But Thorin can face them on his own - Bilbo does not need to carry that burden.

"But it would be better," Bilbo comments with a tired smile, "No, I believe I am starting to grasp the value of that stone to your kin."

"They overvalue it, truly," Thorin replies, "You have been right all along."

Bilbo sighs. "And yet I was naive, too. It's not as if I don't know how symbolism works."

"And I was mad," Thorin returns, "It's not as if I left you with much of a choice."

Bilbo shifts his weight uncomfortably and Thorin wonders if he said too much. He doesn't know if speaking like this is a good idea after everything that happened between them - after the hurts that still linger. Wounds he cannot heal and wrongs that - for the sake of the integrity of his reign - can never be owed up to.

"I could probably have picked something else," Bilbo answers eventually, before switching the topic. "Have you returned the white gems yet?"

Thorin shakes his head. "Fili went to speak to Bard first. Bifur and Bombur are searching for the gems, and I was thinking about having Kili deliver them."

Bilbo grimaces. "There are a lot of implications attached to whoever hands those gems over, aren't there?"

Thorin feels the corners of his mouth twitch. "A lot," he confirms.

"But it's not going to, well, give our enemies something to attack us with?" The fact that Bilbo still places himself with the company warms Thorin's heart.

"You'd best ask Balin or Nori that," he replies, "They could certainly spin it in a number of unpleasant ways, but Ori was right when he said we needed to present our own version. And I believe we could name the gems an expression of thanks to the elves for their support against Azog."

"There's a certain amount of underhandedness to this," Bilbo comments thoughtfully, "If the gems originally were theirs - I like it."

And suddenly they find they are both smiling at each other. Small, brittle smiles, but smiles nonetheless.

"Ori may have a better suggestion," Thorin adds.

"He is scary with words, isn't he?" Bilbo shakes his head, "I'm certainly looking forward to reading his account of the quest one day."

"Even if it's isn't the truth?" Thorin cannot stop himself from asking.

Bilbo sighs heavily. "In truth, I'm happy if I don't have to remember what happened, Thorin. I know you were mad and I know you paid a heavy price yourself, and I don't want to hate you or any of the others. No, I don't mind if Ori's account does not state what happened, not when I'd rather forget it myself."

Thorin's heart aches. "Even so, you must know I -"

Bilbo raises his hands to stop Thorin. "You'll owe up to it, if I ask. You'll do whatever I want, yes, you told me before. I know I didn't seem well put together then, and in all honesty, I'm still not there now. But I am aware of your offer and I have no inclination on taking you up on it, because what would I gain from it? It would end with Dain or some other noble on the throne, and that wouldn't stop my nightmares."

Thorin's shoulders slump.

"I know you want to help me," Bilbo adds, "And I wish you could. But I'm afraid time will be the only cure for this."

"And yet it is a poor thanks for all your efforts on my behalf," Thorin replies sadly, "Instead of honoring you, I harmed you terribly."

Bilbo sighs. "And suffered, too. Causing yourself pain will not undo what has been done. I would rather see Erebor flourish and become your home once more."

"You truly are too kind," Thorin can only say. Somewhere deep in his heart he understands, knows that Bilbo is not offering forgiveness. But he is afraid of what these further lies will cost them, and he wishes desperately there was a way for him to make amends.

Bilbo smiles thinly, but this time without humor. "No, I'd rather see this impasse ended and no further harm passed."

"I will -" Thorin begins, but the door opens again and Dori marches in, his arms laden with fabric and jewels.

"Thorin, apologies, I couldn't find the -" and then he catches sight of Bilbo, stops and pales.

"Bilbo," Dori stutters, looking between the two of them anxiously and checking for harm. But except for a deepening of lines on their faces and Bilbo’s terrible pallor, nothing has occurred.

“Balin told me to find you,” Bilbo answers after missing a beat, “concerning the coronation. I didn’t know you were busy, I’ll return later.”

“Certainly,” Dori hurries to agree, “Later.”

***

And while Bilbo leaves the encounter with a new spark of optimism blossoming in his chest, that night the nightmares return with a vengeance.

_tbc_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I have a [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge) Most of the time I reblog fanart, though from time to time I add my own two cents. Or warn about delays.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm brews. The company begins their plan of winning sympathies, Kili confuses Thranduil, but the onset of winter becomes both a blessing and a curse. Bilbo is the one to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the end is near. Apologies for having this chapter end on a cliffhanger, I do intend to resolve that one asap. No specific warnings for this chapter - mentions of violence and trauma, but nothing explicit.

Bilbo jerks awake. Cold sweat beads his forehead and makes his hair cling to his face. Before his eyes he can still see the lid of the chest close. Abruptly the covers are too tight so he throws them off, but the air in his room still feels suffocating.

He forces himself to take a deep breath of air. His heart races and Bilbo wearily tugs at his sticky nightshirt. After yesterday he'd hoped the nightmares would stop. Or grow less intense, at least. Time has passed and the dwarves have done just about everything to help him. He thinks he's able to understand Thorin, too – or at least rationally understand that the King never truly meant to harm him, in spite of what happened.

But his heart is a fragile, irrational thing that hovers frantically between missing their shared friendship and fearing a sudden resurgence of the sickness. Rationally understanding that this is neigh impossible does not help.

His fingers shake and with a shake of the head he gets up. Sitting here will only allow his thoughts to spin in circles and drag him deeper into his fears and nightmares. Fresh air will help, or at least he hopes so. With unsteady steps he wanders toward the wardrobe, already half-filled with brand new clothes. Among them a heavy fur coat he did chide Dori for – a simple hobbit has no need for jewel-studded robes – but now he gratefully buries into it.

Outside the corridors are silent. It must be hours before sunrise, still. The doors of his friends' rooms are all shut – he hopes they sleep better than he does.

They will need it for the coming days.

Bilbo directs his footsteps toward the grand entrance hall or Erebor. Bofur and Bifur have seen to reconstruct the most used passageways, so even in the dim light his feet encounter no cracks or obstacles that make him stumble. The marble is smooth, cool – and yet still so different from the Shire's wooden floors, thick carpets or simple earth grounds.

A fresh gust of wind greets him even before he has made it to the top of the parapets. He still can't go here without remembering that terrible day – then he had climbed the stairs with trepidation filling his stomach. Now the unease is different. No actual danger awaits above; nothing to remind him of what happened. It is a simple space that allows a good view of the road connecting Erebor with Dale and the city beyond.

"Bilbo?" somebody calls out and he flinches. He looks up to see Dwalin seated in a corner, wrapped into the thickest fur coat Bilbo has ever seen. "What brings you out here?"

The wind is chilling and far stronger than yesterday. Just overhead the sky begins to lighten.

In reply to Dwalin's question Bilbo frowns. "Couldn't sleep. And you?" He'd rather not discuss his nightmares. It's enough that he can still taste the desperation.

"Watch," Dwalin replies and his breath fogs in the cold air, "Keepin' an eye on everything."

"Is that necessary?" Bilbo asks and wants to retract the question immediately. After all, Balin has been poisoned and he was attacked and even though those things happened down at the camp, that does not make Erebor safe.

"Let's hope it's not," Dwalin replies, "But I'd better make sure than regret it later."

Bilbo nods and tugs his fur coat a little closer. "I see. Is there any news from Bofur?"

"Not as far as I know," Dwalin says, "They still haven't figured out who attacked you and my brother."

Another thing he doesn't like thinking about. But one day in that hard-to-imagine future he will be sitting in the Shire, enjoying the sun and all this will be nothing but a memory.

"But if I know Nori he'll have a name soon," Dwalin adds after a moment, "Now that he's gotten the go-ahead, he'll find 'em. Until then we just have to be careful."

Bilbo nods. Ahead a few lights flicker in the ruins of Dale as the wind howls across the plain. It is unusually cold, he realizes. Winter has come.

"Meaning no solo excursions," Dwalin continues and Bilbo turns to find the dwarf watching him sternly.

He nods with a small smile. "I understand. I didn't mean to make anybody worry, I just …"

"Worried too much about everybody else," Dwalin finishes the sentence with a huff. "I heard you ran into Thorin earlier. Are you alright?"

Bilbo blinks; is Dwalin honestly thinking Thorin may have done him some type of harm? "Yes," he says somewhat too quickly, "I mean, it was uneventful, really. We talked a bit and then went each on our way. Nothing happened."

His nightmares decided to turn vicious on their own. Thorin may be the antagonist within them, but that Thorin now feels like an entirely different person from the one preparing to accept the crown of Erebor.

Dwalin grumbles something under his breath and beckons Bilbo to sit down next to him. "Good to hear, I guess. Can't help but worry, you see."

The corner Dwalin has chosen is not quite as exposed to the wind and Bilbo gratefully sinks down. "That… I … well, he is cured, isn't he?"

Dwalin nods. "Yes. The sickness' been gone for a while."

"And it can't … return?" Bilbo inquires uneasily.

"You need to ask Ori that – he did the research," Dwalin replies. "But no, there's never been a case where the sickness came back."

Bilbo dimly recalls discussing the topic with Ori. But in those days the young scholar had just started his research into it – but a part of him shudders at the thought of inquiring after an update.

"Though I thought lore stated there was no recovery from the dragon sickness? Gold sickness, yes, but not dragon sickness," Bilbo recalls.

Dwalin eyes him warily. "Ori said that's a misconception. There've been recoveries. They just didn't make the history books."

Bilbo swallows. Something in Dwalin's voice warns him, but his curiosity wins out. "Why?"

"They killed themselves," Dwalin answers and Bilbo sucks in a breath through his teeth. Of course, he thinks as the pieces fall into place, of course. Why didn't he figure out – Thorin's behavior, his breakdown, it all makes sense.

And calling it a breakdown is a terrible euphemism.

"Thorin, is he…" Bilbo stutters involuntarily.

"Better now," Dwalin says darkly and can't quite keep the concern off his face, "And Erebor needs him. If he's not there, there's no saying what will happen to Fili and Kili. Or the rest of us."

Bilbo swallows. "That's not a good situation."

Dwalin chuckles without humor. "Nothing about this is a good situation. But that's the price of a kingdom."

Politics, Bilbo thinks to himself. In the end, the Kingdom of Erebor rests on those same fragile constructs built from carefully selected truths, white lies and history written in broad strokes that have always governed kingdoms. And while the stakes in the Shire are lower, the principles are the same.

"What a cheerful mood you are in," somebody calls out, and Bilbo turns to see Gloin ascending the staircase, "It's my time to take a shift. You two go and get some more sleep."

Gloomy as their conversation may have been, Bilbo feels calmer now. Next to, Dwalin rises as well and casts an eye outward. The plain lies still and motionless. Clouds have covered the last stars and it is promising to be a grey day already.

Gloin shivers. "It's quite cold, isn't it? Or is that just that coldest before dawn thing?"

Dwalin shakes his head. "The wind's changed. There's a storm brewing up north."

* * *

Kili makes his way through the snow with an atypical frown on his face. Gloin and Nori trail behind him, dressed in similarly ostentatious robes. Before them the tents of the elven encampment come into view and the weight of the small chest Kili carries seems to double.

Everybody agreed he had to be the one to extend the invitation to Thranduil. Kili still doesn't know why they deemed it a good idea. He knows his knowledge of protocol for these occasions is frighteningly small and they didn't even send Fili along to salvage any damage Kili is likely to do. What he knows is that he is third in line for the crown, though he wishes everybody would stop paying attention to it. It mattered little before – and the fact that they suddenly have a kingdom again doesn't mean he gained any skills at diplomacy overnight.

"Halt," one of the elven guards cries out and Kili stops before they need to withdraw any weapons. He feels strangely naked, with just a small blade strapped to his side. His bow sits in his new chambers, next to Fili's collection of daggers. Apparently carrying hidden weapons is not befitting of potential candidates for the throne.

Kili is inclined to disagree, but at least he has Nori with him.

"We wish to meet with King Thranduil," Gloin announces.

The guard frowns. "The King is not expecting visitors."

"We come as an official envoy of the Kingdom of Erebor, carrying a proposition. Please inform your King." Gloin puffs out his chest and Kili reminds himself to stay still. And silent. And ideally exude an air of superiority, but he will start with keeping his mouth shut.

The guard hesitates for a moment, eyeing their clothes. Eventually, he inclines his head and nods to his companion.

A few moments later, they are allowed passage. "The King will listen to your proposal," the guard tells them while Kili finds his eyes drawn to the many elves they pass. Some seem familiar from their time in Mirkwood – or are they merely similar in appearance?

Thranduil's tent manages to aptly reflect the King's personality. Simultaneously practical and ostentatious, its thick, carpeted walls keep out the worst of the cold. Thranduil himself is perched on an elaborate, throne-like chair and nothing in his posture belies that he is sitting on a battlefield.

"King Thranduil," Kili greets and bows. Not as low as Nori and Gloin, but enough to express his respect.

"Prince Kili, I believe?" Thranduil replies coolly, "I was told you have come with a proposition. Please refrain from wasting both our time and come straight to the point."

It is probably not an invitation to forgo formality, but Kili is not above using the openings he is given. Without waiting for a further word, he drops into another chair and leans forward. Balin would have an apoplexy, he thinks, and ancient Thranduil so used to be treated with reverence might be off his guard either. Perhaps he has been spending too much time with Nori, lately.

"Alright," Kili says and reaches for the small chest tucked under his coat, "These are part of things you wanted. They're yours."

He puts the chest on the table. Thranduil eyes it idly for a moment, but does not reach out to open it. "What do you want in return?"

Kili grins. "Nothing. Well, maybe giving this entire being neighbors thing another shot, but no. We've got enough jewels in that mountain, and those are yours anyway."

Gloin develops a mysterious, spontaneous coughing fit and Thranduil straightens, now obviously interested. "And what if there are other gems in the mountain I could claim? Will you give them to me as well?"

Kili shrugs, knowing Balin would scold him terribly if he could see him. "Depends on what gems you're asking for, but the kind of designs your people fancy usually aren't very popular. So I guess you can have them."

He is enjoying Thranduil's reactions perhaps slightly too much. The Elvenking is too old and too poised to actually betray any emotion. But Kili can sense that both the sudden turn-around and his lack of manners is greatly irking Thranduil. Gloin must be wishing for the ground to open up and swallow them now, he thinks. But Nori is probably approving – and that makes Kili feel a little better about himself.

And, truly, until now he has not accidentally declared war. So the meeting is going fairly well, everything considered.

"That is a strange development, indeed, but I will take your word for it," Thranduil announces gravely, "Now, have you any other business?"

"Just as invitation," Kili says and rises, "To the coronation. It's a formality, but now that there's a King under the Mountain again, we'll have the ceremony in a fortnight."

Thranduil's lips thin. "You would have me come and pay homage?"

"We'd have you come as a guest," Kili corrects with the widest grin he can manage. It's entirely inappropriate. "You and every single one of your soldier. Erebor will not ignore that without their support in the battle the mountain may have easily been lost again."

"I will consider it," Thranduil ordains. And while he sounds just as composed and supercilious as normal, Kili considers this meeting to have gone entirely in his favor. Balin may not be entirely happy, but he's aptly realized Nori's tactic of "cause confusion" and supported Ori's advise of "make them doubt everything they knew of us".

Kili leaves the meeting feeling lighter and cheerful. "It's not so bad, this diplomacy thing," he tells Gloin and Nori as they stagger back toward Erebor, "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

A freezing gust of wind blasts past them.

"No," Gloin tells him, nearly shouting, "You are merely throwing money at your problems."

Nori purses his lips. "That is, however, a time-honed and well-proven solution."

* * *

As the day proceeds, the temperatures sink further and the wind picks up. Already a stiff, icy breeze in the morning, it begins to howl and shriek, tear at clothes and hair. Up in the north, the clouds grow darker. By noon, they have started to move.

Form atop Erebor's gate, Oin has kept a wary eye on them whenever he could. Now that his patients discharged themselves he spends his time taking stock of the remaining utensils and tonics left from Thror's days. And keeping an eye out for approaching visitors. Or disaster.

His frown deepens and eventually he knows that there is no choice left. The king and the company must know and decide what they will do. That storm brewing there promises swift death to the unwary and unprepared.

With a sigh he calls Bombur to go and find Thorin. It doesn't take long for the king to arrive – he still looks to pale and even the heavy fur robe cannot conceal the sunken cheeks and shadows underneath his eyes. He shouldn't be up, the medic in Oin assesses, he should be resting and as far away possible from this cold, cursed mountain.

But the world is not just and Oin understands that Thorin is needed.

"There is a storm coming tonight," Oin announces grimly. Thorin casts a glance to the north where dark clouds have begun to gather.

"One of the blizzards?" he inquires, recalling the bad snowstorms that hit Erebor in his childhood.

"Aye," Oin nods, "A bad one."

Thorin frowns. Even with the mountain mostly in shambles, they will be able to weather the storm. The ice and snow have never made it past the entrance hall and the relit forges distribute enough warmth to keep the grand halls at a constant temperature.

"Is there a word from Bard yet?" In Erebor, they will survive. Dale was built to wither the storms, too. But the Dale of old with its thick walls and thicker carpets has been lost and the ruins are drafty and cold.

The storm, he can tell, will take lives.

Oin frowns. "Not as far as I know."

"Send somebody down," he decrees, "Warn them."

Men, after all, are far more sensitive to the cold than dwarves are. And he remembers that the citizens of Laketown had that haggard look to them that comes from insufficient nutrition. They will not be able to wither this storm.

* * *

Dain frowns at Balin. "A coronation?"

"Aye," Balin nods and leans back in the comfortable chair Dain offered his visitor. Outside the wind howls fiercely, "It was about time we got the formalities done away with."

Dain takes a sip of his wine and Balin can see the wheels in his mind turning. For all its comforts, the walls of Dain's tent are still just tarp and fabric. Those keep out the bitter cold, but do little against eavesdroppers.

"A fortnight from now?"

Balin nods again. "Initially there was some discussion if we should hold it on Durin's Day or the anniversary of the battle. However, as the coronation at this point constitutes merely a formality, we decided to hold it as soon as possible."

"So you do not plan on making it a grand ceremony?" Dain inquires thoughtfully.

Balin shrugs. "We will uphold protocol. Nothing more, nothing less. We will hold a feast celebrating the mountain's reclaiming one year hence."

Dain takes deep breath and nods. "It is a sound idea," he comments, "But it may seem ill-fated with so many hosts still sitting on your doorstep."

The true question, Balin knows, is what they intend to do about Thranduil. "Invite them."

Dain sputters and sets down his wine. "Really?"

Balin nods cheerfully. He'd thought it slightly mad, but the plan does have its merits. Especially as it is slightly unconventional, thanks to Nori, Bilbo and Kili. "Yes. It used to be traditional to have the rulers of the Greenwood, Dale and other neighboring dignitaries witness the ceremony."

"Indeed," Dain agrees, still looking doubtful. "And a little more than a fortnight ago you were on the brink of war with these neighbors."

Balin sighs. "Unfortunately, yes. But Erebor needs at least Dale, and stable relations with Mirkwood would be preferable."

Dain nods and stands. "I see. Still, it appears an abrupt change in direction. But I believe you know what you are doing, and – in all honesty – I am looking forward to returning to my own mountain."

Balin rises as well, chuckling. "Aye, winter is just setting in. It's going to get only colder from now on."

"Don't remind me," Dain grimaces, "We still have to journey back to the Iron Hills."

* * *

"Master Bard, Master Bard!" Ori shouts the moment he catches sight of the man's back. "Wait up, please!"

The man turns and behind him Ori hears Dori catch up, gasping for breath. They've almost ran down from the mountain.

"There's a storm coming," Ori tells him, "You need to evacuate."

Bard's face scrunches up. "A storm? What do you mean?"

Ori gestures to the dark clouds gathering in the north. "Up there. The worst of the winter storms always, always come from the north and the wind has turned last night. It's likely that the storm will be here by nightfall."

"We do have shelter," Bard returns uneasily. Ori can see the wheels turn in the back of his head – Bard has lived all his life in Laketown, he will know what those clouds herald.

"The storms are worse in Dale than in Laketown," Ori informs him, "You're up higher here. Those wall won't keep you warm tonight."

"Then where do we go? There are barely two wall left of any house in Laketown," Bard returns.

Ori takes a breath in order to calm himself down. "Erebor."

He raises his hands when Bard wants to protest. "You are free to return to Dale after, of course. Sheltering during the storm will have no impact on negotiations – we will not consider anything owed to us."

Bard's face twists. "This is strangely generous."

"Hopefully there will be a day when it won't seem strange anymore," Ori replies quickly and Bard does a double take.

The young dwarf shrugs. "Erebor and Dale have entertained good relations for centuries and do depend on each other. Planning anything different would be madness."

A frown crosses Bard's face – he obviously recalls Thorin from before the battle. "Is your king aware of what you are offering?"

Ori can sense Dori hovering nervously behind him, but in this situation he does not feel insecure. He knows the words to choose and he knows what he wants to tell. Though it is a pleasant surprise this short encounter already offers him an opportunity to spread his narrative.

"He extended the offer," Ori reminds him, "And he is also the one who told us to warn you of the storm tonight."

The wind tears violently at their clothes. Already the streets of Dale are surprisingly empty, considering it is still daylight. But the chill creeps even through the thickest furs, and Laketown's former inhabitants often don't even have those.

"Your king wanted to go to war," Bard reminds him, "And now he intends to save us?"

Ori shrugs. "Saying he wanted to go to war is perhaps not quite accurate. With the situation being what it was, it wasn't as if he had any choice."

Bard blinks. "No choice?" he echoes, astonished.

Of course he's not going to believe the tale Ori spins without doubts. But any aspersions he can cast on Thorin's madness – any argument that will make Thorin's behavior appear reasonable – will help them undermine those that long to remove the line of Durin from the throne.

"You are probably aware of how harsh and stringent dwarven traditions can be, Master Bard," Ori tells him, "What happened was indisputably a cause for war. It may not be rational from a pragmatic point of view, but for Thorin as a King whose rule would and will certainly be challenged, he did not have a choice."

Bard purses his lips. "I won't claim to understand dwarven traditions," he begins with a shake of his head, "But if you say so… I just do not want to arrive at Erebor with the wounded and ill to be turned around."

Ori nods. "You will not. If you wish to, one or two of us will come down to help you with the transport and arrangements."

Bard still seems not entirely convinced, but he eyes the darkening sky with worry in his eyes. He does not truly have a choice, Ori knows. Not unless he wants to consign many to death.

So in the end, Bard gives a short nod. "Tell your King I accept his offer. We will prepare immediately."

"Very well," Ori nods, "One of the company will come down to help you."

* * *

"Oi, wake up, oi!"

Bofur wakes to somebody roughly shaking his shoulder. He pulls down the blanket only the slightest bit, unwilling to expose his face further to the cold. Outside the storm's shrieking, the tent's pole groan underneath the strain.

"How on earth were ya asleep, anyway?" the dwarf staring down at him grumbles, "Tha' racket's about ta wake the dead."

Now that he's growing more aware, Bofur is inclined to agree with that assessment. Which makes him wonder why his fellow soldier – the face is familiar, the name escapes him momentarily – deigned it a good decision to wake him. His displeasure must show on his face, for the other dwarf huffs a breath.

"Orders from up high. We're evacuatin' to the mountain," he announces.

And Bofur is awake. "Erebor?" he echoes stupefied.

"Yeah," the other one agrees, "They've been evacuatin' people from Dale all day, but the storm's worse than anyone thought. So the generals put their head t'gether and Dain had a runner go up. Poor sod's been frozen stiff, but we're cleared to go."

Bofur sits up, head moving. The tent shakes badly under a particularly hard shove of wind – it's true, tonight will be uncomfortable. But the lords and generals in their carpeted tents should be able to wither it, unless they've grown softer than Bofur expected.

Is this a veiled invasion?

"It's just an evacuation, is it?" he asks his fellow soldier uneasily.

The other dwarf chuckles in disbelief. "This would be the worst time to invade. Hell, half of us would just switch for a warm bed tonight."

While dwarvish loyalty is not that easily bought, Bofur allows himself to relax. "Who got the idea?" he asks as he works his way out from under the mountain of blankets.

A sharp gust of wind pulls at the tent again. "The runner was one of Lord Kham's. Suggestion came from Lord Janvi, I heard. And Loni was worried about the wounded. Said they'd not last the night."

Which is a reasonable thing to fear, Bofur acknowledges when they step out and a violent blizzard meets them head on. The world is barely visible beyond snow and darkness and they struggle to make any headway at all.

But he needs to get word to Nori or Dwalin or Thorin. The wounded are not the only ones in danger of not lasting the night.

* * *

The evening passes in a mad flurry of activity. Bilbo supports Oin best as he can, directing the men and women streaming into Erebor towards habitable quarters, toward the supply cart Dori manages, but it's easy to see they're too few to handle the onslaught. It's barely organized chaos at the point word comes that the storm's worsened again and the dwarves will be joining them.

At first it's said only those injured in the battle, but then Bilbo sees soldiers march in and freezes. His heart is in his throat and he barely manages to tell an elderly lady where the sick have been brought.

He needs to get away, he realizes. The presence of the armed dwarves disturbs him more than he expected – it's easier to accept the men, as few of them carry weapons. And none of them every set his tent on fire and tried to kill him. The wound on his back smarts – it will leave a scar – and Bilbo sucks in a breath through his teeth and turns to the nearest exit.

Oin will manage. His friends will understand.

With cold sweat making his shirt stick to his skin he heads down the corridor heading to his quarters. He should be safe there – at least the door is sturdy with a solid lock. But the empty corridor makes him nervous, even though he knows that nobody is allowed near the royal quarters except the company.

Which is why he jumps when three unfamiliar figures materialize from the shadows.

"Hello Mister Baggins," says their leader. Dwarves, Bilbo's mind screams at him helplessly. Run, he tells himself, run, but those dwarves are well-equipped and likely faster and he needs to start running now before they're surrounded him, needs to scream, needs to get –

"There is somebody who would like to meet you. Just a leisurely meeting, you understand?" their leader suggests. His face Bilbo does not recognize, but his mind has grown blank with fear.

"So I suggest you come with us," the dwarf says, "Now. And without making a fuss."

Before Bilbo can do so much as even draw breath to scream, something heavy connects with the back of his head. And he can only watch as the world spins away and into darkness.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, for those interested, I do have a [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/) where I mostly reblog fanart. And from time to time say something regarding updates/ fics.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo awakens to find himself in a nightmare. The dwarves find him missing and decide to carry out a risky plan. And slowly the culprits are being revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update, apologies!!! Also, cliffhanger not resolved yet,and **warning** violence and torture in this chapter. Please beware.

Darkness has fallen and an icy wind howls across the plains before Erebor, carrying snow and ice and swift death to the unwary. Even the shielded entrance hall of Erebor has grown cold enough for frost to form on broken marble. A layer of snow dusts the scattered rocks and steam rises of the dwarves that work hard to restore the broken doors.

“Shouldn’t we send a runner to the elves?” Kili asks, looking uneasily across the expanse toward Dale. The snow is coming down heavier, soon the night will be white. Now they can still see the fires flickering in the ruined city.

Dwalin huffs, shifting another large stone block. “They’re elves. They’ll keep.” Then he turns to the right where two of Dain’s dwarves are struggling to erect a small wall. “Not like that! Use the ground work already there – make sure the bricks are interlinked.”

“I could go,” Kili offers, “It’s a really bad storm. I’ll be quick.”

“No, lad,” Dwalin grunts, “You’ll be frozen stiff before you’re back. Your uncle will have my head and your brother my remains. You stay put.”

Kili shifts unhappily. He’s not strong enough to help with the stonework and he’s worried – he does not like Thranduil, especially not after his diplomatic visit, but he’s seen enough death in the last fortnight to last him a lifetime. Elves or not, the night will be terrible and they have a large, empty mountain.

“But –“

“No,” Dwalin interrupts and turns to him, “Listen. That pointy-eared king’s a bother, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s been here for some thousand years, so he’ll know his storms. You go and help Oin – he can surely need a hand.”

And with that Dwalin turns away. Kili knows Dwalin is busy, knows that putting up a barrier against the storm is important. With one last glance toward the flickering lights of Dale he sighs and leaves. Hopes the elves will be alright and heads for Oin’s workstation.

The solemn atmosphere of the healing chambers has vanished. There are people everywhere; men, dwarves, children, women, some frightened, others wounded, the younger ones crying. The scent of crushed mint leaves wafts through the crowded corridors as Kili pushes his way through, almost afraid to make eye-contact with the refugees waiting to be seen to.

“Alright!” a familiar voice shouts, “We have ten beds! Wounded and children first!” A murmur of voices raises and Kili finds himself abruptly being shoved forward, he stumbles and catches himself just before crashing into a man. The old man looks at him and Kili finds that half of his face is burned and can’t stop himself from flinching.

Did Smaug do that? Was this their fault?

“Kili, oi, Kili!” and then Ori has seen him. He’s directing ten – two dwarves, four children, three women and one man to a room on the left and waves to Kili with a glass jar. Muttering apologies, Kili makes his way over, even as around him the people mutter unhappily about having to wait.

“Ori!” he exclaims.

“Kili, what are you doing here?” Ori asks, simultaneously turning to a man clutching an infant to his chest and saying, “Put this one the wound. It should clear out the infection. If the fever gets higher, find one of us.”

The man accepts the glass in gratitude and turns away, while Kili still fights to get his bearings in the chaos.

“Dwalin sent me to help,” he tells Ori, wondering how he could with his head spinning like this.

“Great,” Ori exclaims, “We can need help! Some of Dain’s people are helping Oin, but Gloin could need another hand, but could you do me a favor first? Take this –“ he rummages for something in his tunic and reveals a jar of ointment – “to your brother. It’ll help his leg. And see how Bilbo’s doing – he vanished, I think this was too much, but I just want to make sure he’s alright.”

***

Bilbo wakes to utter darkness. His entire body feels sore and he lies on cold, hard ground – and when he tries to shift, metal jingles. Something heavy and cold is wrapped around his arms and ankles, biting into the soft flesh and restricting his movement.

His heart stutters and his breath hitches as the memories return. The dark, lonely corridor. Anxiety. Wanting to be back in his room – the three dwarves. And then only darkness.

Bilbo shivers, blinks, but it stays dark and he becomes aware of fabric covering his eyes. He catches voices talking, but they sound distant. Still, if he called for help –

“… the plan,” one of the voices says and an icy shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine. He knows it, hasn’t heard it often, but once is more than enough. It belongs to the leader of the small group that caught him and he turns his head to the stone, fighting the desperation threatening to swallow him whole.

Please, he thinks, please, and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. For this to be over, for him to pass out. Wake up and find himself home in the Shire and everything that happened one horrible, convoluted nightmare. But just passing out would be enough.

A small sniffle escapes him. Something wet soaks into the fabric covering his eyes and Bilbo can’t stop the choked noise coming from his dried up throat.

“Oi, did you hear that?” somebody asks in the next room, “Sounds as if our guest is awake.”

The sound of chairs scraping over the ground echoes and Bilbo desperately suppresses the sob rising in his throat. He tries to lie as still as possible, but his body trembles and twitches against his will. When he hears a lock turning and a door opening, he curls into a ball, burying as deep as possible into his coat as the restrains will allow him to.

“Look there, look there,” another voice jeers, “Awake indeed the little fellow is. Now come, no need to hide.”

Footsteps come closer and Bilbo barely braces for the impact before a hand roughly rips the blindfold away. His skin burns, Bilbo blinks and his eyes focus against the throb that forms behind them. It’s a small, nondescript chamber, barely large enough for all of them. One dwarf kneels above him, another towers behind. Bilbo can see a third in the doorway and catches sight of shadows in the connected room.

His heart sinks.

“Now, why so glum?” the dwarf holding the blindfold asks, “We only need your help. Nothing too … terrible, I suppose. If you cooperate, that is.”

Horror makes Bilbo’s heart shudder and he averts his eyes. The grin on the dwarves’ face is utterly demented.

The other dwarf folds his arms across his chest. “Get on with it, Haugar.”

Haugar smacks his lips and shrugs. “You’re no fun, but alright,” he turns back to Bilbo and buries a deceptively gentle hand deep in Bilbo’s curls. The touch makes the hair on Bilbo’s neck stand on ends, but he can’t escape the grip.

“Now, little hobbit, listen. All you need to do is answer some questions, alright. Alright? Nod!” And without a warning the grip on his head tightens to a painful degree and Bilbo’s head is jerked around in a gut-wrenching parody of a nod. His neck hurts, his stomach churns and his vision flickers as the hand releases its grip and pats his hair.

“Alright,” Haugar murmurs, “So, you see, we need to know where you put the Arkenstone.”

That thrice-cursed stone, Bilbo thinks and hates it all the more. Wishes it had never been found. But he makes no move to reply, because he thinks the answer isn’t difficult to guess.

“The Arkenstone,” Haugar repeats, “Where is it?”

Bilbo presses his lips together and keeps his eyes fixed on the polished floor.

With no warning Haugar smashes his head against it. Bilbo’s vision flickers, black for a moment before pain races from his forehead and something wet begins to trickle down. He chokes for air, hears Haugar snort and one of the dwarves sighs.

The hand is back and drags Bilbo’s head up until Haugar’s face is a hand’s breadth away. Pain throbs in Bilbo’s forehead, he blinks, and finds insanity twirling in Haugar’s eyes and it takes him back to another place.

“Do you understand me now?” Haugar asks, but Bilbo fights against the memory threatening to rise in his mind, “Where is the Arkenstone?”

Thorin. Thorin had been obsessed with the stone, too, obsessed with such a mad fever lightening his eyes and he’d raged and shouted until the elves had come and Bilbo had been driven to his mad bargain and he regrets everything now.

“Where is the Arkenstone?!” Haugar roars abruptly and Bilbo winces, a sob escaping him.

“Oh, stop it,” the dwarf leaning in the doorway interrupts, “It’s useless. I doubt that thing can add tell a rock from a tree. Much less where the stone is.”

The dwarf behind Haugar shifts his weight. “Being as it is, we need to know where it is.”

“Most likely in his chambers. We all saw that he’s been given it,” replies the other dwarf, but Bilbo is hyperaware of Haugar’s fingers in his hair and the tense, coiled stance of the dwarf. “It’ll be easiest if we kill this thing. Pin the blame and the plan’s done.”

Bilbo’s breath hitches. Death. Death. He doesn’t want to die, but he desperately wants to be elsewhere -

“It’s not that easy,” the dwarf behind Haugar replies, “If Oakenshield has the stone, we need to know. The plan hinges on it. You know Lord Fror.”

“Yeah, I know and that’s a big old load of superstitions. Do you really think somebody will care where that stone is when they’ve got proof Oakenshield’s insane? Give them the body, add some rumors and let the mill do the rest – they know Oakenshield’s been mad and turned upon his allies once; for all they know he went mad about the stone again.”

Kill him and blame it one Thorin – Bilbo’s gut clenches. He can’t quite stop a whimper from escaping.

“Oh, shut up,” Haugar mutters coldly, and smashes Bilbo’s head against the floor again. This time Bilbo’s vision does not clear up.

***

The chaos in the old residential quarters of the mountain is no less immense. Nori waves past throngs of people, keeping his eye on where Balin directs the movements of Dain’s soldiers from the center of the storm. It’s madness to settle threescore of dwarves and men in a few short hours, when they’re not sure how stable those quarters are. At least Dain’s soldiers are willing to take orders and help directing the more confused and lost families from Laketown.

Bombur and Bifur are working like mad to distribute provisions – the little of food they have and blankets and coats to keep warm. The people from Laketown have little but the clothes on their backs, they’ll be glad to be warm tonight. Tomorrow will be the true challenge, once they wake and find there is little food. Dain’s provisions will not last long when shared among so many.

They all can only pray the traders Bard sent out will return soon.

“Hey, care to lend me a hand?” a familiar voice calls over. Nori turns and sees Bofur attempting to carry two supply crates by himself. He’s dressed in the garb marking him part of General Mjothis men and brilliantly fades into the background.

Nori nods, giving no outward sign of his familiarity with the other and helps Bofur lift the crates. “Where to?” he inquires, while subtly fishing for the sheet of parchment sticking out between the crates.

“Over there,” Bofur nods to where Dori and Bombur are sorting out supplies. Already a small mountain of crates has been assembled and more boxes and crates are being carried over.

“Thanks,” Bofur nods and turns to go once they’ve set down their crate. Nori shifts the paper into his pocket. “Anytime,” he replies and wonders just how long they need to keep up the charade. Now that Dain’s men have moved into the mountain, upholding the charade may become difficult.

With a frown he climbs the small staircase to where Balin broods over the supply plan.

“Any news?” Balin asks without looking up from his calculations, while Nori unfolds the message. It’s short, to the point. And confirms what they suspected. Unhappily, he holds the missive over the flame of Balin’s oil lamp, watching it turn into ash.

“Fror,” Nori says, molding his voice so it won’t carry in the din around them, “He’s trying to have Dain crowned. Been spreading rumors.”

“Anything more?” Balin inquires. He never stops writing and gives no hint that the conversation moves him. Any observer must think they are discussing rations – and that is exactly what Nori desires.

“No,” Nori shakes his head, “But I bet Bombur will find some tea leaves among the stores. There might even be residue of whatever they were mixed with.”

That, to Nori, is the benefit of having Dain’s men come into the mountain. Their supplies are all concentrated in one spot, which makes it relatively easy to trace the stash Balin’s tea was supplied from. And thereby determine who may have had access to it and could have added the poison.

Balin calmly sits up. “Don’t tell my brother,” he instructs, “Not before you know for sure.”

Nori nods and his mouth twitches without humor. They will be grateful for the tea before too long. With that he turns his back to Balin and makes his way into the crowd again. Dori and Bombur will take a while until their supply list is complete, but in the meantime Nori will see if he cannot pick up some interesting rumors.

Namely, rumors concerning a missing dwarf. One that might have been willing to carry out an assassination.

***

A merry fire flickers in the fireplace of the King’s quarters. Thorin feels as out of place in these rooms (his grandfather’s rooms to him, still), while Dain leisurely sits in one of the armchairs. A frown betrays his relaxed position.

“We’ll run into trouble if we try to establish rules,” Dain says, “The Lakemen may not like it – they’re not any of our subjects. My soldiers will listen to me, but you are the King. If I speak, it will look awkward.”

Thorin sighs. “It may be the most pragmatic solution,” he says, “They may not accept my word after all.”

“They should!” Dain thunders, and then leans back. “They should, and I wish I could make them.”

Thorin nods and turns to look at his cousin. The last days have left lines on his face, too. The jovial spark commonly lighting Dain’s eyes had faded.

“As long as we don’t know who is undermining your authority, we may have to settle for what we can do,” Thorin replies, walking over to sit down opposite to Dain.

Dain grimaces. “It may send out the wrong signal. No, I think it might be better if you made the announcement. It’s your kingdom, after all, and we’re the guests. You –“

He’s interrupted by a short, loud knock and before Thorin can say anything, the door flies open. Fili and Kili stumble in, eyes wide and upset and gasping for breath.

“Uncle,” Kili stammers, pale, and Thorin’s stomach sinks with dread, “Bilbo, Bilbo’s –“

“Bilbo is missing,” Fili says, bend over and rubbing his bad leg, “He’s vanished. We, we checked his room.”

“Wait, wait,” Dain interrupts, standing up. Thorin is frozen to his chair, mind blank with terror. What could have happened. Another fire? Another attempt –

“What happened? Are you sure he’s missing?” Dain inquires.

Kili nods fiercely. “He was helping Oin and Ori and then left. Was headed straight to his chambers but never got there.”

All blood drains from Thorin’s face. Bilbo. In his kingdom. Again.

Dain purses his lips. “And he could not have gotten lost?”

Kili shakes his head, but Fili tries to straighten. “I doubt it. He’s not … he knows the way.”

Of course, Thorin thinks, of course. Bilbo has not grown up in the mountain, but he has been inside. He’s clever and witty and would not get lost. And he’s never shown any interest in exploring the mountain, so he should not have gotten lost.

“We need to look for him!” Kili bursts out.

Dain takes a deep breath. “That would be wise. I could ask some of the men I trust to help you, they will be thorough and discreet, and – Thorin?”

Thorin is dimly aware of Dain having stepped up to him, of Kili and Fili watching him anxiously. But his head is spinning madly, panic floods his veins. Why does he keep failing Bilbo so terribly, why is it always the hobbit that suffers, why can he not – make it right? Just once, just once he wishes he could have Bilbo at his side, show him his home without all the pain and horror between them.

But that is an unrealizable dream.

“Thorin, are you alright?” Dain asks and settles a careful hand upon Thorin’s shoulder.

With a jerk, he returns to himself. “Yes, yes. Yes, we need to look for Bilbo. Dain, if you can spare –“

“Uncle,” Fili interrupts, “I have a suggestion. May I -?” He glances over to Dain, uneasy, but the Lord of the Iron Hills nods at him to go ahead.

“You remember what Ori was saying,” Fili begins, “And I was thinking – use this opportunity. There are almost a thousand persons in the mountain now; if they all helped us look for Bilbo we could find him faster. If he’s lost. And if somebody is plotting against him or us, we may isolate them. Offer a reward for clues. A reward for finding him.”

Kili nods. “And clear up once and for all that Bilbo is our friend!”

Fili watches him expectantly, nervously. Thorin takes a shuddering breath, the implications overwhelming him. Taking such a bold step forward – it’ll help, but it may force their enemy’s hand, and he can’t calculate the possible repercussions, but if he waits, who knows what might happen to Bilbo.

“Alright,” he mutters, thinly and Dain raises an eyebrow.

“Alright,” Thorin repeats and rises from his chair, “Alright. We do it your way.”

A smile spreads over Fili’s face. Dim and shallow, because they’re still missing a dear friend, but there’s hope and Thorin feels it blossoming in his chest, too.

“We’ll get Ori,” Kili says, “He and Balin can write you something.”

“And I’ll make an announcement for everybody to gather in the gallery of the Kings,” Dain announces and moves to the door. “My men and the Lakemen, I suppose?”

“Everybody,” Thorin breathes, wandering over to the table where he settles his crown. It’s a heavy, gaudy thing. Tonight, though, tonight he will need to wrap himself in all symbols of power he has available.

Dain gives a sharp nod and leaves. Kili is half out of the door, too, before Thorin turns to his nephews again. “Fili, Kili,” he calls and manages a small smile, “Good thinking.”

***

The Gallery of the Kings echoes with rumors and nervous tittering. The hour is late and everybody assembled is tired – outside, the storm howls fiercely and they half-fear what may come. Mysterious rumors surrounding the elusive King under the Mountain spread and change within moments, and the stone-faced guards of Dain’s personal unit flank the doorways.

Below their feet the stone is covered in pure gold, testament of outrageous tales and terrible rumors and the word madness echoes until it is all Thorin hears. His long coat trails the ground behind him, heavy as the duty he must perform. On his brow the crown sits, polished and solemn, even as Dori blows a fine layer of powder over his face.

“You still look sick,” Dori complains, “Why did Oin let you go again?”

Thorin allows him to fuss, glad that Oin is unlikely to show up. The sick and wounded still need attention, though according to Ori’s word they have accommodated everybody by now.

“You know the text?” Fili inquires uneasily.

“Yes,” Thorin nods and then turns to Ori. “Good work. I made some small changes, though.” Both Balin’s and Ori’s widen at that.

“Nothing terrible, I promise.”

***

Bofur stands among the group of soldiers he has shared the tent with before moving to the mountain. They’ve been gossiping before, uncertain of what to expect. Rumors of Thorin’s madness have spread and made everyone wary of what a mad King may ask of them. He, too, is unsure. There had been no opportunity to approach any of his companions – and he had not dared risk his cover by sneaking up to the royal quarters.

When Thorin enters the hall, they all fall silent. Solemnly the King under the Mountain strides up the gold-covered gallery until he climbs up onto the Dais at the end. Fili, Kili, Dwalin and Balin follow behind him, each decked out in rich clothing. And yet it’s not gaudy – Bofur recognizes Dori’s handiwork.

Thorin turns to the crowd, his face utterly calm. “Dear guests,” he begins, his voice ringing and clear and Bofur is certain he hears a gasp somewhere, “I hope you have found shelter in my halls on this dreadful night. I pray do not hesitate to approach any of us – my kin, my companions or Lord Dain’s men – to seek help. Too long have we stood on different sides, now we must help each other!”

Bofur shifts his weight. Perhaps this is part of Ori’s plan? Supplanting the rumors with another narrative? If so, Thorin’s performance is admirable, but Bofur cannot shake the premonition that something is yet to come.

“Tonight then,” Thorin continues, “I come to you with a request, too.”

He waits until the tittering dies down. It’s an oddly humble gesture for a king, but a gracious one. Bofur bites down on his lower lip. His mind is jumping to conclusion that he hopes aren’t true. Not all of the company are on the dais, anyhow, so Bilbo’s absence shouldn’t –

“Tonight I search my friend,” Thorin confesses to the crowd of almost a thousand as if speaking to a single, trusted friend, “I fear he may have become lost in these halls or worse may have befallen him, and I will richly reward whoever finds him or helps me discover his whereabouts.”

Bofur’s stomach sinks. Bilbo is missing, then. How? When? Who? All the questions racing through his head make him almost miss the rest of Thorin’s speech.

“I know some of you may wonder – some of you will have heard rumors of me declaring him a traitor. Perhaps of other things, too,” Thorin adds with a small, self-depreciating chuckle and his voice works its magic. The thousand here have been drawn under its spell.

“But I believe you here will know of true friendship and that it may outlast even the fiercest of disagreements. And that is all that you have seen. Bilbo Baggins is my trusted and true companions and we shared in many perils,” Thorin continues, “I had gifted him something precious, something he chose to trade away to save my life. I did not understand then and in my anger spoke out. Before all of you, I would once again take back my words and declare: Bilbo Baggins is the truest friend a dwarf can have!”

Fror will hate this, Bofur thinks. But he can’t catch a glimpse of the lords’ faces from where he stands. Only Thorin’s open, beseeching expression and from the shifting around him he knows that the words have reached their audience. Hurt and grief they all understand. Madness now seems like a shallow, untenable explanation.

Great work, Ori, Bofur thinks, though he wonders if it was Ori, too, who added the part of the Arkenstone having been a gift to Bilbo. A lie, certainly, but a clever one. And not one anybody outside of the company can ever unveil.

Thorin straightens a little more. “Some have asked me the price of my shelter. Know that there is none. All I would ask of you is to help me find my friend! Find Bilbo Baggins!”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is scheduled for friday. Feel free to [ haunt me](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com) if I fail to deliver.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion dawns. But it turns out the head of the conspiracy is not the greatest danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** This chapter has character death (no named figure), mutilation, torture and gore. Please beware!!! If this is not for you, feel free to skip it. The next chapter will resolve the cliffhanger.
> 
> Also, I'm posting from not-my-pc, and that's really screwing the layout. Also, I'm afraid of what autocorrect may have done when I wasn't watching.

At least five dwarves slipped out of the hall the moment Thorin’s speech concluded. Nori purses his lips. The lords, advisors, generals and other nobility are still clustered on their perch near Dain, faces betraying nothing except a sense of concern. Whether for the turn of events or their own plans, Nori does not know.

He finds Bofur in the crowd and they share a short nod. Bofur will trail one of the five – likely the dwarf in wearing Fror’s insignia, which leaves Nori with four to choose from. Two bear Kham’s sigil, one is without any sort of identification at all, and the last one belongs to Himril’s staff. As far as he knows both Himril and Kham are not involved in whatever plot is at large – they may not like what is happening in Erebor, but won’t interfere.

So the one without insignia it is. With a surreptious nod toward Dwalin Nori turns to the left and slips into one of the corridors leading away from the hall. At its end he can see the silhouette of the dwarf turn to the right and silently follows. Nori pats the pocket of his coat – the alarm whistle was Gloin’s idea, and he hopes it will work. A part of Nori fears whether Thorin’s speech may have spurred their enemies to act hasty. What that may mean for Bilbo, he does not want to imagine. So whatever he will find, he may need to call in the others at once.

***

“Outrageous!” Lord Kham exclaims the moment he has set foot into the side chamber. Thorin wishes he could keep out the lords and generals, but he knows he needs to play along. So far they’ve all made righteous proclamations how self-justice is a terrible thing.

“Indeed,” Dain adds, looking at the tittering nobles with barely hidden disdain, “One would think the hobbit’s deeds do not mean anything to our kind.”

“Well,” and with that Janvi clears his throat and Thorin wants to murder him, “He is a traitor.” The dwarf belatedly seems to notice Thorin’s stare burning into his back. “I mean, of course, it is terrible that somebody saw the need to take the law into their own hands. His failings should have been judged by the right authorities.”

“With all due respect,” Balin interrupts quietly, “The hobbit you are speaking of is why we reclaimed Erebor. The King himself has just delivered an explanation of the events.”

Janvi flushes, turns to Thorin, but finds no support there. However, Kham, still reeling from Thorin’s announcement, is more than willing to take up the ball. “Yes, and pardon me, but what was that? Your majesty gave him the Arkenstone?”

The entire congregation breaks into a clamor. Thorin catches Dwalin roll his eyes. They’d all prefer to be elsewhere – out there, searching for their missing burglar. Thorin most of all; he cannot fathom how Bilbo has come to such harm in his company. And he knows it is his fault, and wishes he could undo it all, but now he must address the uproar before him.

“I did!” he states evenly, “As a sign of my thanks – of the thanks all dwarves owe him! He was the one who braved Smaug, who faced Azog! Without him, we would not have reclaimed this home.”

Dain gives him a wry smile, while Fili nods along seriously. Some of the nobles shake their heads, though Himril purses his lips. “To see him trade away this gift must have broken your heart, your majesty,” he suggests.

Thorin realizes what he’s implying. So does everybody else in the room and Thorin knows it’s a lie. Whatever there was between Bilbo and him never blossomed, was choked by his descent into madness before it had a chance. But this is not about truth or lies – this is about spinning a convincing narrative and Thorin wishes he could just let Ori do the talking.

“Yes,” Thorin confirms and hopes this will not come back to haunt him, “Yes, it did.” It’s easier to blame the events on the parapet on a broken heart than to mention madness.

“Still, he’s a Halfling,” Janvi mutters, visibly unhappy. “He’s not …”

A dwarf, and Thorin seethes. Bilbo is worth ten of you, he wants to tell Janvi, and Dwalin, too, shifts. To their surprise it's Kili who speaks up. "He has helped win Erebor, risked his life for us several times. If that does not make him a dwarf, we should not call ourselves dwarves either," Kili says, sharply, reminding the assembled lords of their dismissal of Thorin's plea, "And begging your pardon, I would rather go and search for a friend than dither here."

Himril sucks in a sharp breath, Janvi shifts and Balin grimaces. He'll apologize later, Thorin resolved, but Kili is right. They should not wait here. So he inclines his head. "I believe my nephew is correct. We can have this discussion later. Now I have a friend to find."

"Wait for him to be found," Fror counsels, "it's unbefitting for the King to -"

Thorin gives him a grim smile. "There are many things unbefitting for a King. I have done many when the need of my people was greatest. And I can tell you, going out to save a dear friend is everything but unbefitting!" And with that he turns and stalks out, Balin, Dwalin, Fili and Kili at his heels.

***

Bilbo wakes to shouting. His head throbs and dried blood clings to his eyelashes. They stick together when he tries to pry them apart, casting a red sheen over his tilted vision. He still lies on the floor where he fell, hands pulled behind his back and numb. His entire body feels exhausted, wearied, and he is just about to close his eyes again when the shouting returns.

“- is over!” somebody shouts from the next room. The door is opened a slit, allowing a sliver of light to emerge.

“I say we leave and shut up!” another voice returns, “Let Fror puzzle out this one. I don’t want to have anything to do with it!”

“You think Fror won’t gladly hand over our heads?!” the first voice yells back, “He’ll sell us out at the first opportunity!”

“What if we still go through with the plan?” a third voice joins, "Kill him and be done with it?" Fear runs through Bilbo's body. Kill him? Now? He almost wishes he was asleep again - so that he'd at least not know.

"And what use will that be?" this voice is familiar. Haugar, Bilbo recalls, the dwarf was called. The one insane. "If we kill him now, either Fror will us have done in or Oakenshield will. Fror would like it - he could serve our heads and ingratiate himself. No, if we want to survive this, we need the hobbit."

Bilbo's heart skips a beat. Pleasepleaseplease, he thinks, please let me live. He'd beg, but his throat is parched and he doesn't think he could scream if he wanted to.

"What do you suggest?" The first voice inquiries, calmer now, and Bilbo has to strain to catch the words.

"We keep the hobbit. Fror knows we could tell on him, he'll try to be rid of us without calling his own actions to attention," Haugar explains. "That still doesn't tell me what we get out of it," number three protests. "Oh, a lot," Haugar laughs, sounding less than stable, "Oakenshield's all but declared himself in love. We simply name our price. Maybe with a finger added to make sure he knows we're serious."

Cold sweat builds up on Bilbo's back and his stomach rolls. Bile rises in his throat, he forces it down with difficulty. His entire body feels wrong, sick and he wishes he could close his eyes and pass out, but his pulse races.

"I don't like it," dwarf number one protests, "they'll hunt us down."

"Which is why we don't release our little hostage until we're far, far away from Erebor," Haugar explains and then his voice drops viciously, "They'll hunt us anyway. We can only pick if we're going to be wealthy or not on the run."

"No," dwarf number two who has been silent interrupts sharply, "no. Kill him and let's be done with it. Fror won't bail on us if we don't bail on him and I doubt there'll be much grief about one dead halfling."

Bilbo whimpers. Tries to curl up on himself, but the bonds don't allow much movement.

"Are you stupid?" Dwarf number one inquiries, "Do you want to get us killed?"

Haugar merely laughs in that sharp, high-pitched voice of his. It sends a shiver down Bilbo's spine.

"Watch me!" Dwarf two shouts abruptly and there is the sound of a chair being pulled back.

Bilbo flinches, the door to his prison flies open and hits the wall with a loud bang. Metal glints in the light, Bilbo tries to shuffle deeper into his corner, but the dwarf advances.

"You," he rasps, a long knife held aloft, "If only you didn't exist!"

"Stop this! Bendir, stop this! Oi!" a second dwarf appears in the doorway and Haugar continues to laugh, laugh, laugh. A shadow falls over Bilbo and only stone is behind his back. The dwarf's silhouette is dark, his eyes two madly glittering dots, and Bilbo's mind goes blank with despair. This can't be it, this can't be where it ends, this can't be happening. Pleasepleaseplease, Thorin, Gandalf, anybody - help!

"You die, maggot!" Bendir hisses, utterly disregarding his comrades screaming for him to "Stop you fool! Stop it he's our ticket out of this hell-hole! Bendir!"

The knife flies down. And an axe smashes down on Bendir's head.

Blood and tissue splatter, the knifes falls to the side. Bilbo's world explodes into an amalgam of red and white and grey and the sound - The sound alone twists his gut. Bone crushes under the axe's force, it cuts through the soft matter, blood drips to the ground, and then the body falls with a soft thud.

It comes to rest across Bilbo's legs. It's barely recognizable as a dwarf anymore.

Haugar laughs. Head thrown back in terrible exhilaration. "I told you," he giggles while Bilbo's vision fades to white, "You're an idiot!" His two remaining compatriots look on, pale and frightened, but Haugar ignores them. Instead he turns to Bilbo, his grin utterly twisted.

"Now, what do you say, little hobbit? Let's send our regards to Oakenshield, shall we?" Haugar crouches down and grabs Bilbo by the hair. Forces his head up, until Bilbo can't breathe for the pain and thinks his neck must snap. "What do you think would work best?" Haugar asks conversationally, reaching for the knife Bendir dropped. Blood drops from and a thick, sinew piece of red gore slides aside with a quelch.

Haugar waves the knife in front of Bilbo's face, exhilarated. "An eye perhaps? It's nicely prosaic, and you have very pretty eyes. I might just keep one for myself," Haugar contemplates, ignoring Bilbo's trembling or the tears silently streaming down the hobbit's face, "Or maybe an ear? Very recognizable. Yes -"

***

"Yes, I think that's it," the voice says and Bofur knows he cannot wait any longer.

He'd not expected to be led to his goal straight away when he followed the dwarf, would have called reinforcements earlier, had not thought the situation would end so dire - He doesn't want to think about what Bilbo must be going through.

Bofur blows the whistle as loud as he can. The shrill sound echoes through Erebor's corridors.

***

Nori stops cold at the sound. Curses loudly, turns around and breaks into a run.

***

"Is that Nori?" Kili exclaims the moment they hear the noise, "He's found -"

"No," Dwalin interrupts, "That's Bofur!"

And Thorin's blood goes cold.

***

"Stop this at once!" A new voice shouts, bursts through the door and Bilbo's heart thrills when he recognizes Bofur. The grip in his hair tightens.

"Oh no," Haugar says calm in face of Bofur brandishing a mace, "No, I don't think I will stop this."

He lifts the knife, sets it against Bilbo's cheek. And cuts. Bilbo's breath hitches in pain, hot blood wells up and Haugar keeps his eyes fixed on Bofur.

"In fact, it would be quite foolish of me to stop, would it not? The moment I let the little doll here go, you'll murder me. So no, I'm not going to stop!"

Bofur freezes where he stands and Bilbo wants to reach out, to fling himself forward. He's so close, almost close enough to touch - but Haugar smoothly shifts the knife so it sits against Bilbo's throat.

***

The corridors blur together. Thorin can't breathe. His body is on fire, though he doesn't feel it. His mind blank and terrified at once. He rushes forward. Up, up, up, three stair at once. Behind him Fili, Kili and Balin follow. Dwalin ahead of him.

Somebody shouts after them. Thorin knows the voice, but it does not penetrate the panicked haze.

Then they find the chamber. Thorin picks up the stench of sweat and blood, but then he's through the door - and freezes. The tableau sears itself onto the back of his retinas; Bofur standing with a sword drawn, but unable to advance, two unfamiliar dwarfs lingering defensively against the wall. And in a dark corner, stained in blood and tissue their hobbit is held aloft by a mad dwarf. A blade sits against Bilbo's throat, the hobbit's face stark white under the blood. His clothes are stained with it.

Thorin's heart drops. Is this his? Is Bilbo already so injured, is he bleeding - then Thorin catches sight of the half-crushed body lying across Bilbo's legs. Behind him somebody retches. And the dwarfs with the knife looks at Thorin with the most terrifying smile Thorin has ever seen.

"Ah, his majesty himself," he utters, sounding amused of all things, "the princes, too. What a fine congregation! Lovely speech, too, I must congratulate you for that. Fror must have been pissing himself."

One his comrades twitches, Fili starts, but the dwarf raises the knife and tuts.

"Oh, honestly, the old geezer deserves it. Would've sold us out anyway. So, your majesty, you see, we're not like him. We don't care who you take to your bed or not - we're here for business." Teeth gleam as his grin widens. "So I thought perhaps we might strike a deal?"

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... If you have opinions on this, feel free to drop me a line here or on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showdown!!!

Thorin sucks in a sharp breath. His heart races, body screams to break into action, yet his feet are frozen to the ground. So is everyone else.

“Name your terms,” Thorin demands, glad his voice does not quiver.

The dwarf holding Bilbo grins widely, a not quite sane light filling his eyes. Bilbo shivers in his grasp, the hobbit’s face a deathly white underneath bloodstains and grime, eyes wide with despair.

Thorin wants to reach out, wants to hold him to his chest and never let go - . But for now he barely dares to take his eyes off of the mad dwarf holding their hobbit hostage. His companions shift, uncomfortable – only one of them has a weapon, the other is unarmed.

Bofur has his mattock, Kili and Fili both carry swords. Nori is bound to have a weapon on his person and Dwalin is without a doubt leading an armed host this way. They’ll win a confrontation easily – but the knife sits tight against Bilbo’s throat and in spite of the mad shine to the dwarf’s eyes his hand is utterly steady.

“My terms?” he echoes, lightly and makes a show of looking contemplative. “Well, nothing outrageous or dramatic. Just some gold and free passage,” he declares with a shrug, “I have no need for the Arkenstone or any such thing, your majesty.”

Thorin balls his hands to fist to keep them from trembling. Fear slowly gives away to rage. “Your terms.” He repeats.

The dwarf’s eyebrows rise. “Impatient to get your little hero back?” He pulls Bilbo backward by the hair, until the hobbit’s neck is overstretched and his head rests awkwardly on the dwarf’s shoulder. Little tremors curse through Bilbo’s body, all the more visible by the tense position.

“He’s quite cute, isn’t he?” the dwarf continues idly, making a show of burying his nose in Bilbo’s hair in a gesture that’s so obscene Thorin wants to take his head here and now. Death is not nearly painful enough, the white-hot ball of rage in his stomach impels, this dwarf should suffer.

Though for now Thorin is frozen. Utterly powerless and the other dwarf knows. With a small laugh he blows over the tip of Bilbo’s ear, watching the hobbit shudder and twitch. “Really cute. I think I understand why you keep him around, your majesty,” he says and winks at Thorin, “Maybe I should keep him. I could –“

Kili jumps forward with a roar. He’s stopped cold by Bofur and Fili before he even manages to get past Thorin, but their three opponents shift. One turns the knife toward Kili, and even Bilbo’s tormentor’s eyes stray from Thorin for a short moment.

Then his mouth turns down and he forces Bilbo’s head back. A pained squeak escapes from the hobbit, his throat exposed to the air and the knife pressed right to it.

“Don’t. Move.” The dwarf orders sharply.

But Kili struggles against the two holding him. “Why?” he demands angrily, “You’re not getting anywhere! The moment you harm him, you’re dead!”

The dwarf’s eyes narrow. “Which means we have a common interest in keeping the little one alive,” he responds, “Congratulations on figuring this out.”

Kili huffs, fury and fear war in Thorin’s chest, he barely dares to breathe.

“You’re not getting out of this!” Kili threatens.

The dwarf grins at him without humor. “Oh, I intend to. And I think I will – you realize, if I die, the little doll here goes with me.” He gives Bilbo’s head a tug and the hobbit’s entire body jumps. A whimper escapes from Bilbo’s lips, Thorin’s chest tightens.

He clears his throat. “We could offer you a deal,” he suggests, “In exchange for your statement we will allow you to live.” Thorin’s heart protests loudly. He wants that dwarf’s scalp, wants to hear him scream and suffer the way he’s made Bilbo suffer.

“Oh, so you want the heads behind this,” the dwarf replies, “You know what – I’ll sell them out free of charge. Fror’s the one behind this. Wanted to get your little hero here out of the way, have the body show up in an unfortunate location and implicate you, your majesty. Think his plan was to claim you’ve gone mad and then have the crown go to somebody else, but, forgive me, I don’t care much for these things.”

A shudder runs down Thorin’s spine. Heads – he wants heads.

“That’s not all, is there?” Nori asks, and for the first time Thorin hears the soft clatter of armor behind them. Reinforcements arrived, and yet they’re all frozen. As long as that knife sits against Bilbo’s throat, they cannot make a move.

“No, no, it’s not,” the dwarf laughs. His hand remains steady. He doesn’t reveal even the slightest shift in attention – there is no opening to get Bilbo away from him, and the longer the hobbit is forced to remain in this unnatural position, the more Thorin fears the damage this will cause.

Bilbo’s health had already been so fragile. He’d barely started to recover from the horrors Thorin had wrought with his own hands. To have him caught in another nightmare now – this should never have come to pass.

“You may want to inspect that Janvi fellow. He’s not in on this – Fror’s been paying us – but he might have known anyway. Also, I think he’s got his eye on the Arkenstone. Was the one who had the fire started,” the dwarf tells them easily, and when he sees understanding dawn on their faces his grin widens, “Thought you might be interested to find out.”

He will have their heads, Thorin vows. String them up for all the kingdom to see – nobody conspires against the company of Thorin Oakenshield and gets away with it. Nobility or not, they are not above the law, and most of all, Thorin will not forgive them the harm they caused. To Bilbo, to all of them.

By effectively stopping them from making amends, hindering Thorin from accepting responsibility for his own actions, forcing his hand.

He’s almost tempted to offer this mad dwarf a running chance. But then Bilbo coughs softly and the rage in his veins refocuses.

“Cousin,” Thorin inquires without taking his eyes off the other dwarf, “Would you mind investigating? And perhaps making certain the two persons just named will be available for questioning?”

“My pleasure,” Dain replies grimly.

Thorin hears feet shift, people move – his entire attention is focused on Bilbo.

“Very well, very well,” the dwarf comments, “Now, can we come back to my deal?”

***

Pain throbs through Bilbo’s body, emanating from everywhere at once. His arms are numb, but they feel wrong. He’s glad he can’t see his fingers. The blood staining his shirt has begun to dry, making it stick uncomfortably against his skin.

Worst is the positon he’s forced in. Haugar’s breath tickles his ear, hot and fetid with every word he speaks. He can barely swallow, the knife a cool pressure against his windpipe. The hold on his hair is unforgiving, his head bend back at a painful angle.

He wishes he could see Thorin, but all he sees is dull grey ceiling. At least the voices, they promise rescue and darkness tugs at the corners of his vision. Soon it’ll be over, soon. Hopefully before his necks snaps or his lungs give out, though part of him just wants to close his eyes and let it all fade away.

Please, Thorin, he thinks, please. Accept the deal. He knows he shouldn’t hope for this, knows he should be fighting – but he’s too exhausted, too worn.

He’d beg if he could.

Anything to end the pain.

“Gold,” he hears Haugar repeat his demand, “Plain coins. Nothing fancy or recognizable. Two chests for each of us – small ones, ones we can carry. It’s not so much, is it, for this lovely little thing?”

Bilbo flinches internally. He wishes Haugar would stop it; this is already humiliating enough. To be called these names –

“You won’t -!” Kili begins, but is interrupted.

“Alright,” Thorin agrees with a sigh, and Bilbo’s body relaxes in relief, “Nori, can you arrange to have those delivered to the gate?”

Something shifts in the background. Bilbo hears footsteps leave, suppresses the reflex to swallow. Please, let this end soon.

“Very well,” Haugar says, sounding satisfied, “Then let’s get this party moving.”

He shifts, loosens his grip on Bilbo hair just enough for the hobbit to relax the muscles in his neck. A sharp pain shoots through him, but he’s not granted reprieve. Instead Haugar rises, the knife never shifts even in the slightest and Bilbo is dragged up, up, up. His knees shake, but the unforgiving grip on his hair gives him no choice; he must follow.

His body aches and throbs, he blinks against the milky sheen covering his vision, finds Thorin and Fili and Kili and Bofur and many unfamiliar faces staring at him, all armed, all angry, and his heart throbs. So many weapons, he thinks while Haugar forces him forward, forces his exhausted body to move, so many warriors.

This is unlikely to end well.

Haugar steers them toward the exit. His two comrades keep close behind them, their wary eyes fixed on the many armed dwarves present. Nobody seems to be breathing, the air’s thick enough to cut it with a knife –

And Bilbo understands that all that stands between these three and swift justice is himself.

As long as he’s here, no one will dare lift a finger. As long as the knife remains at his throat, the entire mountain is frozen.

In turn, Haugar will not let him go. Not even once he receives the promised gold. Because the moment he releases Bilbo, he’s dead. And he knows.

Bilbo can feel the nervous thrum running through Haugar’s body. Feels the tension in his muscles despite the dwarf’s unfazed attitude.

It will only take a minuscule shift for this all to change. Thorin will not risk anything –

But Bilbo is tired of being hostage, tired of this nightmare. He wants it over, no matter the ending. His pulse spikes and his vision clears slightly. Not much – his body is too worn for that, and he will not last long from now.

One chance is all he needs. Hopefully.

So Bilbo catches Thorin’s eye, though the dwarf’s eyes are fixed on Haugar. He hopes Thorin catches the faint smile anyway –

Then he fakes a stumble, has his foot hook behind Haugar’s, pulls – and they both go down. Something sharp and cold cuts through the soft skin of his neck, a dull pain races up, but Bilbo tries to struggle away, momentarily blinded in the knot of limbs.

A roar rises, metal sings, somebody screams. Hands pull at him, shift him, but he tries to duck away, doesn’t know if they’re friend or foe –

***

Dwalin lifts Haugar from Bilbo with one hand, fury distorting his features. Thorin is a step behind him, sword drawn and pointing, while Kili and Fili have jumped to protectively crouch before Bilbo. The other conspirator tries to defend himself with his knife, but Bofur’s mattock catches him –

A thick squelching sound echoes, and a lifeless body drops to the ground.

“Don’t move!” Nori hisses to the third and last conspirator, “And you may just live.”

Thorin doesn’t know if he will, the tip of his sword aimed at Bilbo’s tormentor shakes. Dwalin holds the dwarf in place, it will not take much. Just a little, and Orcrist will drink the madman’s blood. End him forever.

“Keep him for questioning,” Balin advises from the side, “Both. We need their statements.”

Of course, Thorin’s whirling mind agrees, of course. But his heart pounds and desires blood. Revenge. He wants to do onto them what they did onto Bilbo –

A small, choked noise catches his attention.

“Uncle,” Fili calls, “Uncle!”

Bilbo has curled up on his side, facing away from the young dwarves. He trembles badly, obviously not realizing what is happening around him. And Thorin’s heart breaks.

What despair must have driven Bilbo to act? And to think that they were helpless, until Bilbo made such a dangerous wager. How did this end with them all still depending on one hobbit’s initiative?

He grimaces, puts the sword away. “Take them away,” he orders, not looking at the conspirators, instead stepping past Fili and Kili. “I’ll look after him,” he tells them, and lowers his voice.

Bilbo’s tremors have been growing smaller, and he flinches only a little when Thorin reaches for him, rolls him over. He shouldn’t be doing this, he knows. He’s still too connected to so many horrors haunting Bilbo.

“Bilbo, Bilbo,” Thorin calls, gently guiding the hobbit’s body to stretch out on his lap. Bilbo’s eyelashes flutter, crusted with dried blood, eyes glassy, but tracking Thorin’s movements. “Stay with me, Bilbo, just a moment.”

The hobbit makes a faint, painful-sounding noise in the back of his throat. There is a new cut on it, bleeding, but it’s not close to any of the important arteries. A small sigh of relief slips from Thorin’s lips and as another tremor runs through Bilbo’s body he hurries to shrug his cloak off and wrap Bilbo into it. Blue shades the hobbit’s lips, but whether it’s from cold or an injury, Thorin does not know.

He hopes Oin will arrive soon.

“Bilbo,” he calls the hobbit in his arms to attention, “Bilbo, everything will be alright. I promise, you will be fine.” Empty words, he knows, but the pained glint in Bilbo’s eyes demands he speaks them. He wants to mean them, more than anything.

Wants to guarantee Bilbo’s safety from now on.

But how can he promise this when blood stains Bilbo’s face, when cuts and bruises mar his body and he’s already suffered so much on Thorin’s behalf? Tears burn in his eyes and he bows his head low.

“Whatever I can do …” he murmurs, “Just, Bilbo…”

No, Thorin tells himself, do not break down yet. He has to wait for Oin. Only when Bilbo is taken care of, he can allow himself to fall apart.

“What… Thorin?” Bilbo mumbles, voice slurred. He shifts, Thorin is glad to see his hands move weakly. The fingers are still eerily white and bloodless, and he can only pray there is no lasting damage.

“I’m here, Bilbo,” Thorin replies, keeping his voice gentle and calm, “Everything is alright.”

“Thorin!” somebody calls and Thorin has never been so glad to hear Oin. The old healer runs over, drops to his knees next to Thorin, but keeping thoughtfully out of Bilbo’s sight. He’s been through so much, they’re afraid of what another fright may do to his system.

Oin takes on look on Bilbo’s stark white face and grimaces. Sets a steaming mug on the ground and pushes it toward Thorin.

“Your tea?” Thorin inquires.

Oin gives a sharp nod. “Might be better,” he mumbles and nods toward Bilbo. Of course, Thorin realizes, after his experience Bilbo will not enjoy being prodded. Better have him sleep through this.

“What is hap…?” Bilbo murmurs, attempting to turn in Thorin’s lap. The King carefully keeps him in place.

“Oin is here,” Thorin informs him, and watches Bilbo blink and slowly process the information. He can only hope Bilbo understands what he is telling him.

“Oin will make sure you are alright,” Thorin tells him, “He will care for your hurts. He brought you his tea.”

“Tea?” Bilbo echoes weakly. He struggles to stay awake, but at least he does not pale any further. The cut on his cheek stopped bleeding, and Thorin wants nothing more than to wipe away the bloodstains on that gentle face. They shouldn’t be there. Not those shadows and hurts and the other marks of horror his association with Thorin put there.

“His sleeping tea,” Thorin explains softly, “The one he gave me when I was unwell.”

The desperation of those days seems close and distant at once. He can still taste the hopelessness, the suffocating guilt – it is so close to the surface still – but what nightmares haunted him then will now be replaced by fresher ones.

“Ah,” Bilbo replies, but whether or not he understands, Thorin does not know.

“I would like you to drink it,” Thorin says, “It will help you sleep.”

Bilbo’s lips twitch. “Sleep… I would like that,” he murmurs, and then his eyes find Thorin’s and the plea within them is clear, “When I wake …”

“All will be fine,” Thorin promises against the tightening of his throat.

“Will you be there?” Bilbo asks, voice weakening.

Something burns in Thorin’s eyes. “I will,” he vows, “I will.

“Alright,” Bilbo murmurs and closes his eyes.

“Laddie,” Oin reminds Thorin gently before he can break down. Thorin takes a deep breath and with a shudder reaches for the mug. Slowly coaxes Bilbo to drink – the hobbit does not protest, barely even stirs.

But soon the liquid is gone and the tension seeps out from Bilbo’s body. His breathing evens out, Thorin’s hold on him tightens. Cradled like this, he feels small. He should have never had to face what he did.

Gandalf was foolish to pick a hobbit for his quest. But Thorin was the greater fool to have allowed it.

“Laddie,” Oin calls again, as he slowly climbs to his feet, “Come on. Let’s get Bilbo elsewhere and make sure he’s alright.”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so the end is close. Resolution to several plotlines, recovery and epilogue remain. :)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the Aftermath. It's a bit more complicated than everybody hoped.

Compared to the central halls, the corridors leading up from the dungeons are blissfully empty. Balin half-heartedly contemplates moving his office here – it would certainly bring less traffic to it. Dain entertains a similar idea, but they both know these are distractions.

Until they reach the point in the corridors where no guards are posted and their conversation should remain unheard.

“Well, that was useful,” Dain grunts, frustrated at Haugar’s refusal to testify. The statement they overheard during the confrontation is of limited use.

Balin grimaces. “We could always base the charges on what was said during the confrontation. Thorin himself could confirm.”

“And they’d call him biased,” Dain sighs, “No, cousin, if we want to remove all doubts, we need the statement from the conspirators. Fror’s going to fight with everything he has and…” Dain trails off with an unhappy shrug.

Fror’s position as head of a noble family line, his riches and military strength render him a terrific opponent indeed. While not crowned, his influence reaches far, and they both know that challenging him may bring about worse.

Especially since they cannot ascertain who else in Middle Earth would be likely to side with Fror.

“He has not returned to the Iron Hills yet?” Balin inquires.

Dain shakes his head. “Doesn’t plan to, either, if my information is correct.”

“So either we let Haugar go free and get his statement in return, or let Fror go,” Balin summarizes their dilemma. He’d almost be inclined to give Haugar his deal – if the dwarf wasn’t sporting that unholy glow in his eyes. If they let Haugar be, he will likely cause trouble elsewhere. And Thorin hadn’t been the only one to notice his strange fixation on Bilbo.

“Even if Haugar speaks, Fror will name him insane,” Dain replies, “That will be easily done. Should his compatriot speak out, it may change the situation, but you know how these things are handled.”

Balin nods. Winning back Erebor catapulted him right into the middle of court intrigues. Declaring annoying protesters insane used to be standard practice for dealing with those lacking in riches – easier than having to refute their statements.

“Still, Thorin is King under the Mountain. He could –“ Balin begins, but Dain interrupts him, “He’d undermine his credibility. Fror has much support, not only in the Iron Hills, and he’s already casting aspersions on my cousin. He’d not hesitate to up his game.”

“But he hasn’t so far,” Balin observes, “He chose to conspire rather than make his accusations plain. He’s not as certain of his support, it seems.”

Dain shrugs. “Challenging a king is no light undertaking, especially the King under the Mountain in possession of the Arkenstone. He knows that by their vows all owe their allegiance to Thorin. It’s not a move he’d make if he wasn’t sure he’d win this.”

“Then we convince him he can’t,” Balin suggests. He knows how to work the rumor mill, and he’s certain Ori will come up with a convincing narrative to disperse. Already the halls are teeming with tales of the quest, of Bilbo and Thorin. Ori’s little story and Thorin’s grand statement have caused a grand shift in public opinion among both men and dwarves.

Dain smiles thinly. “That may be an option,” he says, “Also, we could widen the scope. Declaring Haugar insane would be a sound move for Fror if this affair had to be settled among dwarves alone. As Master Baggins is a hobbit, he could demand some non-dwarf to represent his interests.”

“Which would make it more difficult for Fror to have Haugar declared insane,” Balin summarizes, “But we’d need to involve Bilbo.”

He still recalls the pale, blood-smeared shape that had been carried out. For a too long moment he’d thought the hobbit dead – only the urgency in Thorin’s body language had said otherwise.

Dain nods. “How is he, anyway? Has he woken yet?”

The light shifts and Balin realizes they have almost reached Erebor’s main levels. It’s likely their conversations from here on will be overheard.

“Oin keeps him asleep for now,” Balin answers, “So we don’t know.” That Bilbo is alive may – in the end – not account for much.

***

The hours pass slowly. Between themselves, Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, Gloin and Dori have set up a rotation system. Dain offered members of his personal guard to support them – after all, they are only thirteen, and between guarding their King, their burglar and themselves, they are stretched thin – but Dwalin declined.

Now Bard is offering the same.

“We have men to spare,” Bard tells Dwalin. He looks haggard, restless, but then, Dwalin thinks, none of them look very well. Being cooped up in the mountain suits the men ill. Yet they would not have survived the blizzard raging outside, which still shows no sign of moving on.

“Let us help,” Bard requests, “We owe Master Baggins much. If not for him, many of us would be dead, and keeping him from harm is the least we can do. If we can -”

Dwalin frowns. “Master Bard,” he interrupts, “I do not doubt you mean well. But we have this set up. And, no offense, but I’d rather not involve anybody else.”

Bard sighs and shifts back on his heels. The unhappy expression remains in his eyes. “I do understand,” he admits, “But I also feel rather ill at ease with the situation as it is. You are hosting us, and all we do is sit around. At least let me help you.”

“No,” Dwalin returns quietly, decisively. He had hoped Bard wouldn’t ask, because he doesn’t need to look at the man to see his face fall. It’s not the Dwalin doesn’t trust him. He’d trust Bard with his life, long before he’d entrust that to any of his more distant relations.

He just doesn’t think they can trust anyone beyond the company with Bilbo’s.

“But if you want to help,” Dwalin continues, “Go and talk to Fili. He’s coordinating the mountain’s restoration and they’re glad for every helping hand.”

Especially since Dain’s soldiers, to Dwalin’s knowledge, grumble at being instructed in recovery work. Being warriors, many consider this kind of work below themselves and a number of higher ranked majors and generals so far have preferred to stay in their rooms rather than lend a hand.

“Alright,” Bard nods, still frowning, “That’s perhaps for the best. Do you know where I can find him?”

“His office is up in the royal wing. Just ask one of the guards up there,” Dwalin replies. Fili and Kili, at least, accepted Dain’s offer. Especially since Fili still has trouble moving on his leg.

Bard gives another nod, though does not yet turn to go. His eyes stray to the closed door behind Dwalin once again.

“Could I ask to be informed once Master Baggins wakes?” he inquires.

Dwalin snorts. Oin is likely to personally go after anyone threatening to disturb Bilbo’s rest, and the company is bound to follow. As it is, they do not even know what to expect once the hobbit wakes up. Oin’s healing tea usually works very well on dwarves – but Oin himself had expressed doubts on whether it could do the same for hobbits.

“You may have to get in line,” Dwalin says, and then decides to take mercy on Bard. “There’s a number of folks that want to talk to Bilbo. It might not be a good idea to let everybody in the moment he opens his eyes – we’ll let you know once he’s up for sure.” Whenever that may be.

Dwalin was there, he’d seen Bilbo’s wide, unseeing eyes before Oin’s tea had mercifully rendered the hobbit asleep. He’d recognized the expression as that on the brink – and not all returned from there.

Bard shuffles his feet. Tilts his head to look directly at Dwalin. “I’d like that, yes,” he replies, “But, personally, I would also like to know how he’s doing. Even if he isn’t improving.”

Especially then, is what Dwalin hears. They all owe too much to one small hobbit, he thinks. They should have never let Bilbo become involved to this degree.

“We won’t send a runner with that information,” Dwalin states. The mountain is already ripe with rumors; overheard conversations will not help the situation.

Bard understands correctly. “Then I’ll stop by,” he comments, and Dwalin gives a minuscule nod.

***

It’s only been two days.

Oin eyes his patient with a grim frown. He kept Thorin under for longer, and by all rights, Bilbo should rest for at least a fortnight if he is to recover.

But Oin does not like his pallor. The slow, shallow breaths Bilbo takes and the way his cheeks seem to sink further. He’s been aware of the hobbit’s bad health before – they all are struggling along, and Oin hopes the snows will stop and fresh supplies will arrive before long.

He doesn’t want to envision the alternative.

But laid up on a bed, wrapped under furs and blankets, Bilbo does not seem to get better. A part of Oin wonders if he isn’t being impatient – in light of what Bilbo went through, two days isn’t much time to rest, after all, and the resting tea is no instant miracle medicine. Yet something makes him uneasy.

They do not know very much about hobbits and their physical peculiarities. Certainly, Bilbo proved himself hardy on their journey.

But that now appears like a memory from another life, and Oin would rather not risk their burglar’s health any further. So, with a sigh, he decides to forgo the next dose of tea and instead allow Bilbo to wake.

At least, he tells himself, he can make his patient eat then.

***

Curse the coronation, Thorin wants to shout. Gloin, Balin, Dori and Ori are arguing loudly in his office, whether or when to have the official coronation and how to proceed. Fror’s plot, while not entirely unexpected, has thrown a wrench into their own plans: namely in having Bilbo restore the Arkenstone to Thorin and thereby symbolically enthrone him as most powerful of all dwarven Kings.

Bilbo, though, is deeply unconscious, and the memory of the hobbit’s abused body makes Thorin clench his fist. Sod the coronation, he wants to tell them. As long as Bilbo is not recovered, he will not wear that golden crown. It’s the hobbit’s as much as it is his, after everything that has happened.

“We wait,” he interrupts the squabble sharply.

Gloin nods, Balin grimaces and Ori shakes his head with a sigh. “We cannot wait,” he says, and a part of Thorin wonders where the shy dwarf disappeared to. War and politics have changed them all.

“Ori,” Dori protests, but Ori looks at Thorin, “Putting off the coronation now that we have announced a date will make us seem unstable, and therefore vulnerable. It will also make everybody more susceptible to any rumors Fror or Janvi are inclined to sow, or that already exist.”

“The lad’s right,” Balin confirms.

“But Bilbo won’t be recovered in time,” Gloin remarks, “And without the Arkenstone…”

Sod the Arkenstone, Thorin wants to shout.

“We can always return the Arkenstone in a separate ceremony,” Ori suggests calmly, “It will also serve to separate the rule of Erebor from that gem. It may be a good idea to remind everybody that these are two different things.”

Thorin leans back against the smooth marble plate of his desk. The office rooms of King Thror have quickly lost their layer of dust – too many dwarves have come through recently. Meanwhile, the private quarters have not seen a cleaning yet, reflecting how much time Thorin and everyone else spends dealing with politics instead of recovering from their adventure.

He hadn’t envisioned the first months to be like this. But, it turns out, there are many things he did not expect.

“It may also inspire further desires for the Arkenstone,” Balin cautions warily. He looks pale, still, and probably should be resting and recovering.

Thorin sighs. “It is a good suggestion, Ori,” he comments, “I will think on it.” Bilbo should be there for the coronation. Not because the Arkenstone must be returned – he’d rather they find another way to do this, a way which wouldn’t quite put so much attention on Bilbo – but because without their hobbit they would never have reclaimed Erebor.

***

Dark. Warm.

The first sensations Bilbo grows aware of are gentle, but uneasiness surges. He shifts, the warmth suddenly suffocating, and there’s a memory of panic running through his veins – but he finds he can move, and the fabric against his fingers feels soft. His poor, frightened heart slows again – perhaps the world is alright? – and Bilbo allows himself to completely wake.

Now that the first onset of fear has passed, his body feels sore, exhausted. Weak. He doubts he could climb out of bed, though he doesn’t even want to. His lips feel dry, but when he attempts to lift his hand, his arm shakes so badly he gives it up. Not before he catches a glimpse of white bandages wrapped around his wrist.

The memory of what happened lurks just beneath the surface- but it’s wrapped in icy terror and he knows he does not want to recall.

Bilbo takes a deep, shuddering breath, and a myriad of aches reassert themselves. A dull throb emanates from both wrists and his ribcage. The old injury on his back feels sore and his head aches distantly. He realizes that he must have been given something for the pain – the entire world seems out of focus, even though the ceiling above is bare stone.

It shouldn’t look as if it were moving then.

But it is easier to contemplate a moving ceiling than remember. Bilbo can sense the unpleasantness, and already flashes and bits emerge from the dark abyss he’d like to lock these memories in. Cold steel against his skin, unforgiving hands holding him in place, shouting –

“Bilbo,” somebody calls.

The illusion shatters. Bilbo is back in the room, lying on a comfortable bed, heart racing. His skin is clammy, but no ill-intentioned dwarfs lean over him, and when he turns his head, he recognizes Oin lingering in the doorway, a tablet in his hands.

“Awake?” Oin questions and seems to hesitate.

Bilbo swallows before his throat finally works. “Yes,” he manages, his voice scratchy.

Oin nods, shoulders slumping in relief, and only now approaches. His expression is serious, though his voice remains gentle. “That is good. I would have let you sleep some more, but I wasn’t certain if the medicine was working quite alright.”

With a clink, Oin sets down the tablet on a small console next to Bilbo’s bed. The hobbit only notices it now, and also catches sigh of the water, snacks and papers stacked there.

“You perhaps recall that I was giving both Thorin and Balin a special tea to help them recover,” Oin continues, his voice soothing, “If you feel sluggish and the ceiling seems to be moving, the tea is at fault.”

Both apply, Bilbo thinks, and it calms him down considerably. Oin’s presence exudes tranquility and safety; if he is here, Bilbo can allow himself to relax.

“Bilbo, I do need you to answer a question or two before you go back to sleep,” Oin calls him, and Bilbo finds himself opening his eyes again. He didn’t quite recall closing them, but now Oin holds out a steaming mug.

With a groan and a shuffle, Bilbo manages to push himself upright. His entire body aches in protest, and Oin watches his every movement with sharp eyes.

“Does anything feel strange, wrong?” he inquires, studying Bilbo’s body, “A sharp pain in some area?”

He feels as if he had fought a war, but every ache is numbed. Nothing then that Oin isn’t aware of. Bilbo shakes his head.

“Well, in that case your body should recover,” Oin announces, his optimism sounding put-upon, “The bruises will heal, and while the cut on your back reopened, it’s nowhere as deep or long as before. It may yet leave a scar, though.”

He hands over the mug to Bilbo. White bandages emerge from underneath long sleeves of a unfamiliar garment, but Bilbo stops himself from contemplating who dressed him. It’s of no consequence, right now, and there’s a panic too close to the surface.

And though his arms strain, the heavy weight of the steaming mug in his hands is welcome.

“Alright,” Oin says and draws a small footstool over to settle next to Bilbo, “This is normal tea, and I have some broth waiting if you feel up to it. If you’d rather have something else, let me know and I’ll see what we can do.”

Bilbo flinches at the reminder of the outside world. He’d rather stay in this separate space where he’s warm and comfortable and safe. But, a firm voice in the back of mind tells him, he cannot hide forever. So he takes a sip of the warm tea, savors the taste, and then sets the mug down.

“It’s fine,” he says, and keeps his voice soft.

Oin observes him closely, frowns. “I have to ask you a number of questions – we’ll see how far we get.”

Bilbo nods, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

“First, do you feel unwell? Nauseous?” Oin inquires.

“No,” Bilbo replies. The ceiling has stopped moving, his eyes have grown accustomed to the dim light. He feels a bit more present, though still comfortably removed from everything.

Oin nods. “Now, how would you describe your emotional state right now?”

It’s not a question Bilbo wants to answer. Fear and terror lurk just beneath a thin veneer, though for now: “Calm, exhausted,” he tells Oin, “Removed.”

Only months ago he’d never have tolerated himself hiding from the world like this, Bilbo thinks. Now, he dreads when the bubble will burst. Would rather stay like this forever.

“As you should,” Oin declares and his features soften, “The tea is supposed to help the mind heal, and right now it appears to be working for you, I’m glad to see.”

“Will you give me more?” Bilbo asks. He’d not mind returning to oblivion. But, a small voice in the back of his mind reminds him, that is the coward’s way out. He shouldn’t be seeking to escape, not when his friends need him.

“I intend to,” Oin says, stops, and adds, “Though if you do not want it …”

Bilbo purses his lips. A part of him wants to refuse the tea, though he cannot rationalize it. “No, no,” he tells Oin, “Or, well…” He shrugs, unable to make a clear decision.

“Let’s see about that later,” Oin suggests, and Bilbo gratefully agrees.

“Now, I need to know – do you remember what happened?” Oin asks.

Haugar’s terrifying laugh. Despair in Thorin’s eyes. His hands numb, clothes stiff with dried blood. Weight on his legs, hands in his hair –

“Bilbo,” Oin calls, and Bilbo’s eyes refocus on the healer. Oin is holding his mug – Bilbo doesn’t remember letting go of it – his eyes fixed on the hobbit.

“I do,” Bilbo breathes, his fingers shaking.

“That’s alright then,” Oin decrees, “I’ll get you some more tea.”

Cold sweat beads Bilbo’s forehead, and he abruptly feels miserable. Is he damned to react like this every time the memory is so much as touched? Will he forever cower in fear?

“What happened?” he forces himself to ask, because he won’t let the panic win, “How are the others?” Did they fight, did they get hurt? There were so many faces, so many eyes fixed on him and –

“Everyone is quite alright,” Oin tells him, “After you acted, everything was over in seconds. You needn’t worry.”

Bilbo forces himself to take a shuddering breath. See, everything is alright, he tries to convince himself; nothing to fear. “Where are they?” he asks. A part of him suddenly feels lonely, afraid. Desires company.

Oin blinks. “Around. I could call for them, if you want to.”

Bilbo shakes bites his lip. He shouldn’t bother them – they will be busy. Much as he doesn’t want to recall, he remembers the mountain growing busy. The men, the dwarves – the terribly difficult negotiations.

“I –“ he begins.

Oin gives him a small smile. “I’ll send for them. They’ll be glad to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright~, just a heads up - i'll be posting some horror drabbles here and on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com) for Terrifying Tolkien Week. If that's your cup of tea, I'm also taking prompts for that ^__~


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo recovers. And does something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh, i think i intially may have claimed this fic would be gen (usually i don't like adding relationship issues if the storyline is heavy on drama and traumatical events). Turns out I was wrong. Feel free to say how you feel about the developments in this chapter (i'm aware not everybody will be happy, and Bilbo is not really making a great decision, either).

Fili skims through a letter when Kili enters. All sorts of document are strewn over the desk and Fili does not much like the drawn look to his brother’s face.

“Any news?” he asks, quietly.

Fili hums, nods, and sets the parchment aside. “Bard got news from the elves. They received word from Bard’s traders – they’re making their way upstream and will be here in three days once the winds cease.”

Kili blinks, before he recalls. “The ones you and Bilbo sent out with gold? To pick up food and supplies?”

Fili nods, a small smile on his face. “Yes. Apparently the headwinds of the blizzard got them south much faster than anybody expected. They’ve only been waiting out the snowstorm.”

Kili sighs in relief. “Well, that’s good news than. Bombur has been groaning that they don’t have much supplies.”

Fili leans back in his chair, folds his arms. “Yeah, it’s been close.”

“What do you mean?” Kili perks up, wanders over and drops himself on the edge of the desk. From there he can see the cane leaning next to Fili’s chair – his brother’s leg will probably never fully heal, he knows, but seeing the reminder makes something in him clench uncomfortably.

For a moment tense lines return to Fili’s face. “We were a hair’s breadth away from running out of food. Even with Dain and the elves helping out, there were just too many to feed in the mountain. Dain actually send out four of his own men to fetch more supplies, but it’ll be more than a fortnight until they return.”

Kili whistles. “That would’ve gotten ugly,” then he stiffens, “He didn’t sent Fror or Loni or any of the conspirators, did he?”

Fili shakes his head. “No.”

“Good,” Kili states grimly, “They’ll get what’s coming to them.” He’s about to inquire why there hasn’t been a court date yet, when he notices Fili’s expression has grown solemn again.

“It may not be quite so easy,” Fili says quietly, “There’s only Haugar’s word for now, and he’s obviously not quite sane. They’ll fight tooth and nail. They – “

A knock interrupts them. Fili beckons them to enter, and Kili only belatedly recalls that his position is not quite proper – but it’s Bombur who enters. Face red, he needs a moment to catch his breath, but when he looks up, there is a small smile on his face.

“Oin says Bilbo’s awake,” he gasps out, “And he asked for us.”

***

The moment Oin is out of the door Bilbo reaches up to scrub at his face. His body feels lethargic, unsteady. Whatever Oin gave him causes him to feel removed from himself and his memories distant as if these things had happened to another person. Dimly he recalls Oin having given Thorin the same to help him heal, though Bilbo wonders if this kind of medicine truly heals.

If it doesn’t just turn everything hazy and woolen. He frowns, wondering how Thorin is doing. Last he saw him –

Bilbo flinches. His heart speeds up, cold sweat suddenly covers his forehead. He recalls hard hands holding onto him, cold steel under his chin – and the fire in Thorin’s eyes, the quiet embrace he’d been pulled into, and he shudders.

Forces himself to take a deep gulp of air. The others will be here soon – falling apart now is quite bad manners. A humorless chuckle escapes his throat. Even among this madness, part of him insists on being a respectable hobbit. Not that any here – dwarf or elf or man – much cares for these. But he finds, deep in his chest, the idea that a core of himself remained through all the grief, soothes.

Maybe not all is lost yet.

***

Soft chatter filters through the door before Bofur enters. Oin gives him a speaking look. “Try not to mention anything upsetting,” their healer murmurs, and Bofur nods. Some uneasy coils in his stomach – he has not seen Bilbo since he was carried out, unconscious and bloodied, from the confrontation, and he’s been anxious to see him since.

What if he’s been changed, gone blank? He’s seen too many lives lost to scars that cut too deep into their souls, and these were dwarves, warriors, not some gentle soul they picked from his home and spirited away. A part of Bofur would truly like to yell at Gandalf, ask him what he thought he was sending Bilbo on.

But Gandalf is not here, and the voices he hears sound pleasant, calm. So Bofur takes a breath and enters.

Dwalin, positioned right next to the door, gives him a short nod. On the other side of the room, Fili, Kili, Ori and Dori sit around the bed with Bifur, Bombur and Gloin lingering in the background. Nori is missing from their little troupe, and so are Balin and Thorin – busy, Bofur tells himself.

Then Bilbo glances up from his conversation with Ori, sees Bofur, and smiles. He’s deathly pale, has grown thin and bruises litter his skin, and Bofur wants to wrap his hands around Haugar’s throat again.

Instead he smiles. “Bilbo,” he exclaims, pushing aside those violent emotions and searching for cheer and calm, “Are you having a party? If I’d known, I would have written a song.”

Bilbo’s lips twitch, and at least Kili snorts. Gloin, however, hides a groan behind a hand and Fili seems torn between laughing and rolling his eyes.

“It was a spontaneous thing, but next time I will send out the invitations on time,” Bilbo replies easily, though his words feel shallow, “So you have time to compose.”

“Don’t encourage him, Bilbo,” Dori mutters.

“Or at least make sure there’s enough ale,” Gloin adds grumpily, “Those songs aren’t made for polite company. You know, my wife was scandalized that time Bofur wrote a song for her cousin.”

Bofur remembers the incident quite clearly and grins. “Though very true,” he adds, while Fili and Kili dissolve into a staged giggling fit, “I discussed the details with the subject in question thoroughly.”

At least Fili and Kili now laugh for real. Bilbo looks confused, but rather glad at the light mood, so Bofur feels confident he may actually be doing something good for once. Usually – and he recalls the first weeks after Bifur’s injury – his own carefree attitude stands at odds with those grieving and recovering.

But their hobbit is cut from mithril after all.

“On the subject of ale and feasting though,” Fili interrupts, “We’ll get fresh supplies soon.”

Everybody cheers at that. Bofur’s stomach sinks, however, when he replies that supplies mean they can move forward with the coronation ceremony. Hold the traditional feast. And that requires Bilbo once again to set aside his well-being for the politics of the mountain. Bofur’s smile feels hollow, now.

“How is Bard doing?” Bilbo inquires, “Have they settled?”

Fili looks to Gloin who shrugs. “As well as possible. I don’t think they are very comfortable – a lot of the housing in the mountain is built for dwarves, not men, after all.”

“So we’ve been having a lot of people hitting their heads,” Bofur supplies, even though it’s an overstatement, “Explains why they keep getting lost, too.”

His comments earn a few chuckles, though he can see Bilbo is more interested in how Bard is doing. He wonders at the strange friendships Bilbo so easily struck up – in but a matter of days, when it took him months to convince the dwarves to see in him more than a burden. It’s a sad thought, Bofur reasons, and forces himself to retain his smile.

“I think Bard’s doing quite alright,” Gloin says, “Don’t see much of him though.”

“He was rather worried about you, I heard,” Ori adds, and Bofur sees the moment the shadow crawls back over Bilbo’s face.

“Shall we invite him too?” Bofur suggests, cheerfully, “I mean, if we’re having a party…”

Bilbo chuckles, and Kili enthusiastically leans back, spreads his arms and declares: “We’ll get everybody! Music and food and we’ll have the greatest and biggest party Erebor’s ever seen, right here and now. It will be remembered in songs, so great it’ll be, and everybody who wasn’t there will forever be jealous!”

Fili laughs, Dori shakes his head, and Bofur catches a movement from the corner of his eye. Sees a familiar shadow approach the door, and something in his chest tightens – but Dwalin already has slipped out.

***

“Thorin,” Dwalin softly shuts the door behind him.

The King under the Mountain looks at Dwalin with worry in his eyes. Deep shadows line them – he obviously is not sleeping well, if at all. “I heard Bilbo was awake,” Thorin says, looking in puzzlement at the closed door behind Dwalin.

Something shifts in Dwalin’s chest. He’d rather not be cruel – but he doubts Thorin’s presence will help. “He is,” he confirms, “Holding up surprisingly well, though.” At least on the surface. Dwalin doubts Bilbo is quite as composed as he pretends, but he understands clinging to those scraps of normality in order to pretend.

Thorin gives him a shaky smile. “That is good to hear,” he says, and then turns clear eyes on Dwalin, “I would like to –“

Dwalin shakes his head. Has to look to the ground to avoid seeing the hurt in Thorin’s eyes. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says, quietly, knowing that Oin agrees. There is too high a chance that Thorin might trigger a reaction in Bilbo, tear apart the façade Bilbo is so carefully trying to maintain.

And while Dwalin does not like these facades, he understands that in this case allowing Bilbo his charade is better than leaving the hobbit to nightmares and despair. He’s seen too many swallowed by that abyss and not come back.

“Look,” he adds when Thorin remains silent, “Just give it a night. He’s doing well, and likely you can see him tomorrow.” He’ll have to see him soon, anyway, if they’re going through with the coronation ceremony. “Just wait for Oin to say it’s alright.”

Thorin, pale and sad, nods. “Yes, yes,” he mumbles and Dwalin’s heart breaks at seeing his friend act a shadow of himself, “You’re right, of course. I will wait for tomorrow…”

Trailing off, Thorin turns and retreats down the corridor. Dwalin worries his lower lip - should he tell Oin to keep an eye on Thorin, too? The guilt yet rests heavily on his shoulders, and though Dwalin recalls a time when he thought this proper – still can remember that small, shallowly breathing form they pulled from a wooden chest – he now finds he wishes Thorin could recover from this.

***

Oin puts an end to their impromptu party quickly enough. It’s the right time, Ori thinks, Bilbo has been yawning and looking ever more tired. At least he seems comfortable and waves as they all filter out of his room, with Oin informing him he will be nearby during the night.

Ori wonders if it’s a good idea to leave Bilbo on his own when he is yet so shaky, but trusts Oin to know what he is doing. So he follows after Dori, and soon they are on their way back to their concurrent quarters, the rest of their company having disappeared elsewhere.

“He seems to be doing quite well,” Ori remarks, heartened even though he knows Bilbo is far from well.

Dori frowns. “He was holding up, Ori, you know that. Our Master Baggins is strong, but don’t go overestimating his strength.”

Ori blends out the admonishment, his mind already moving forward. He’d partly been worried Bilbo would withdraw completely into himself, which would have put them in an awkward position concerning the coronation. Nothing unsolvable, Ori thinks, but in order to strike hard against Fror and his fellow conspirators, he intends to use every little bit of leverage available to him.

Should Bilbo himself level the accusation, Fror’s beard would be as good as shorn.

“Ori, I mean it,” Dori adds, eyeing his little brother with concern, “Master Baggins needs to recover first of all. And I know Balin said you could write the account, but –“

Ori sighs. He knows Dori means well – but his brother tends to forget he is no child any longer. Usually Ori doesn’t mind or protest; he actually finds being overlooked and underestimated helpful – but this time he doesn’t quite intend to be so subtle.

“Brother, don’t worry,” he tells Dori, “Actually, I think I’ll go up and see if Balin’s still about.”

“Don’t disturb him, though,” Dori cautions.

Ori smiles, nods obediently. “I won’t,” he promises and turns to head up one staircase while his brother continues straight ahead. In his mind, Ori is turning things over. Of course, they’ll only be able to present the linear narrative at the coronation, which is why they must hold of leveling the official charges against Fror, too.

Once Bilbo’s standing and Thorin’s crown have been assured, the accusation of conspiracy and betrayal will hold much more weight. Though already Thorin seems to have gained some favor, perhaps due to offering shelter during the storm, but perhaps also due to the rumors Bofur managed to plant.

Maybe they should do more? But if it becomes too obvious, Fror might pack up and run. Ori’s lips turn down.

No. Fror deserves a special fate. And Ori’s going to come after him with his own weapons. Dwalin and Thorin can claim his beard and head – Ori will take his legacy and memory.

***

“Oin,” Bilbo says, just before the dwarf leaves, “I’d like to talk to Thorin.”

Oin frowns at him, studies him silently. Bilbo is aware he must look a fright, and it’s likely Oin knows better what’s good for him – but he did not miss Dwalin slipping out earlier, and for all he cannot forget what Thorin is done – he can also not forget the King standing there, willing to give into Haugar’s crazed demands.

“I don’t think –“ Oin begins, but Bilbo interrupts him, “Please, Oin?”

The healer sighs. “I …” He shakes his head, lips twitching, “Of course, I will send a runner to fetch him.”

Bilbo’s heart beats faster in anticipation. He’s not sure he’s doing the right thing, not sure at all – he can still feel phantom hands pushing him down, down, down into –

He shakes his head. Directs a frail smile at Oin. “Thank you.”

***

With baited breath Thorin steps through the doorway. Knows several pair of concerned eyes follow him, and Oin rises from Bilbo’s bedside. He gives Thorin a warning glance before leaving, shutting the door softly behind him.

Then it is only Bilbo and Thorin left.

The hobbit sits upright in a large bed, blankets drawn up to his chest. His pallor or hair’s breadth away from snow, even the bandage wrapped around his head appears darker. But green eyes watch Thorin approach, awake and aware.

Thorin sits down on a stool in silence.

He does not know where to begin. Too much lies between them; the burden too heavy on his tongue.

Perhaps he should not have come here.

Dark shadows line Bilbo’s eyes. His cheekbones are more pronounced – these last weeks have been terrible on him.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, finally; his voice hollow.

Unwillingly, Thorin feels his eyes beginning to burn. What has he done? What have his deeds and desires made of this kindly-hearted child of the west?

“I … i…” he does not know what to say. There exist no words in any language to express the depth of his regrets, to convey how much he wishes he could change what happened. Which, in the end, is selfish: for does a change of events not also better his own fate?

Bilbo’s features soften slightly. The spark has gone from his eye, yet some gentle light remains.

“We make a fine pair, don’t we,” Bilbo abruptly comments, shaking his head. Thorin flinches in astonishment, turning wide eyes onto the small figure beside him.

“It’s a fine mess,” Bilbo snorts, and Thorin finds he can only nod.

“If you want to,” he begins hesitatingly, “I can send you home the moment you so desire.”

Bilbo looks up at that, distrust warring with desire in his eyes. “How? Last I heard it was in the middle of winter, the passes are shut, there are no men for such an endeavor and you need me here anyway.”

He would crawl on his knees before the great eagles and back them to take Bilbo home, if he wished to, so Thorin shrugs. “That’s true. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. It most likely won’t be a very comfortable journey, though.”

Bilbo chuckles at that, a small and frail sound that lets hope flare in Thorin’s heart. A part of him wants to draw Bilbo close, tell him how incredible he is, how admirable for managing to hold up against such brutality.

“I’ll wait for spring, then,” Bilbo says, “I heard there was going to be a coronation, and I think I’d like to stay around for that.”

Thorin’s heart clenches. “You needn’t…” he stammers, “You needn’t come if you –“ Don’t wish to. Aren’t up to it. There is a myriad of reasons for Bilbo to curse them all into the void, to deny contact to any dwarf ever again.

And here he sits, looking at Thorin with purpling bruises and a skewed smile on his face. “I think I will,” Bilbo proclaims idly, plucking an invisible string from his blanket, “If Oin doesn’t keep me here.”

“Nobody is going to make you stay anywhere you don’t want to,” Thorin says immediately, and perhaps with too much vigor. Bilbo raises an eyebrow, and they both recall Thorin’s most shameful actions to this day.

Thorin’s shoulders sink. He turns down his eyes, feeling the sprawling hole in his chest open up again. “I … I …” He should be changing the topic. Dishonorable, but safe.

Thorin has always been an honorable idiot. “I would offer an apology, but I fear my words cannot undo what my hands did, and what right do I have to apologize if I cannot even face the laws of my own people? This is not right, and if there was justice, you would have my beard and my head in return for my deeds,” Thorin says, bowing his head, “In fact, if you wish for them, they are yours.”

Bilbo huffs, feigning exasperation, but his hands tremble and his fingers now clutch the covers tightly. Thorin wishes he was Balin or Ori or Kili – somebody who could elegantly sidestep this and not raise the demons that haunt them.

“I don’t want you head or your beard, Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly, “I just …” He shakes his head, sighs. “I wish I could forget it all.”

Pain fills Thorin’s chest, he closes his eyes for a moment. “And I would undo it all if I could,” he says, “If I had a chance now, I would refuse Gandalf. I should have never taken you from your Shire. It was –“ An ill choice all along, and they should have known.

But Bilbo interrupts him. “It might have been for the better,” he admits, “But then the trolls may have just eaten you.”

The memory rises so unbidden, Thorin can’t quite stop the disbelieving chuckle. Their journey now seems to be a memory from another life – though not even a full year has passed.

“That might have been for the better, too,” Thorin adds, half-joking and half-serious. The many dead in Laketown and the battle would likely agree, and his heart grows heavy once again.

Bilbo, however shrugs. “Well, we’re here anyway,” he says with forced levity, “Let’s just …” His voice fades and he seems to crumble into himself. Thorin wants to reach out, steady him – but is afraid of what his touch might cause.

“We’ll do what we can,” he promises quietly, “I will … Whatever it may take, I will see you safely restored to your home. And if, if, once the mountain is stable, and you desire so, claim justice. Your friends will gladly see it done.” He, too, will accept the judgement gladly once it comes.

Bilbo looks away. “I’m not sure I want justice…” he murmurs, almost too quiet to be heard, and Thorin wonders if he should ignore it. But then Bilbo turns to him again, and bright green eyes seek his. “I want – “

Peace. To be home. To be safe. Thorin wishes he could grant Bilbo this, but he cannot turn back time, cannot undo his deeds.

Bilbo’s features soften. “I just want everyone to be happy,” he finishes, and Thorin looks at him in wide-eyed surprise. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Bilbo asks, his voice gaining a cynical edge, “If everybody could just be content with being alive? Think about it – no more conspiracies, no more a-assassination attempts…”

Thorin ignores the stutter, worry blossoming in his heart. Two red spots have started forming on Bilbo’s cheeks, and there’s a gleam to the hobbit’s eye he doesn’t like. He probably should take his leave, calm Oin, make sure Bilbo does not get further upset.

“And everybody could just live in peace,” Bilbo says, bitterly.

Thorin sighs. “Aye, that would be fine,” he concurs sadly. And it would be, truly. “If you wish to, I could –“ Make sure you don’t have to participate in those charades we need to put on for politics. Make sure you no longer have to see those that harmed you terribly.

“No, Thorin, no,” Bilbo shakes his head, “I know what you offer, but no. I wish I could accept it, but –“

He looks at Thorin and his eyes gleam wetly. Thorin finds himself leaning forward, a hand rising to reach out in concern –

Suddenly he’s off balance. Pitches forward, while small hands bury themselves into his hair, and skin presses against his, his nose is being squished –

And then there are lips on his. Thorin freezes, barely managing to support himself on one arm, while warm lips knead his own, desperate and demanding. Bilbo tugs him closer and Thorin finds himself wrapping his free arm around those small shoulders – too bony, too thin, but warmth explodes in his chest and the world fades to blank noise.

He doesn’t think he has moved, but when his mind clears he is half on the bed, holding Bilbo tightly against his chest. Bilbo clings to him with equally pained despair, and when he leans back he finds green eyes glaring wetly at him.

“I wanted to hate you,” Bilbo confesses, voice cracking, “I can’t – I can’t forget and forgive and I tried, I tried to hate you. It would be so much easier if I could just, just, hate you and move on. But I can’t, Thorin, I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also yell at me over on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath.

A choked sob tears itself from Bilbo’s throat and the hobbit collapses against Thorin’s chest. Confusion whirls through Thorin’s mind, his body reacts automatically. His hands come up and he pulls the slight body closer – as if his hands could soothe Bilbo.

Bilbo does not protest, and but for the slight shaking of his shoulders he barely moves. Thorin stares blankly at the wall ahead.

They kissed.

In spite of everything. Or because of everything?

He does not know, cannot even begin to fathom the answer. A long time ago – before the Arkenstone, before the Goldsickness, there may have been something growing between them. Yet these are memories from another lifetime; one Thorin can barely recall. Even his recollections have grown twisted and tainted, and he can no longer trust them.

One of his hand moves up to stroke Bilbo’s back while another curls into the soft hair. Bilbo’s hands clutch at the fabric of Thorin’s tunic so tightly the fabric might rip. Come apart like everything is doing right now.

And the pieces are too jagged and deformed for any hope that they may ever come together again. Whatever was between them, Thorin destroyed with his own hands. He has no right – still should not be sitting here. Should have called Oin or Bofur or any other dwarf really. That Bilbo sits here now is his fault –

And yet –

Bilbo kissed him. Is this the prelude to the end? The place where things come apart one last time; the conclusion to their tragedy?

“Thorin,” Bilbo mumbles and stirs, “Thorin.” His voice is thick, scratchy and when he tilts his head up his eyes are red-rimmed and wet with more tears. Grief has drawn stark lines on his face, and Thorin wishes he could brush them all away.

Almost mockingly the phantom image of the hobbit that ran after them arises; hearty and healthy, a wide smile on his face. The opposite of the hobbit before him, really. He should have relinquished him a long time ago.

But all that Thorin finds himself capable of doing is holding on.

“I … I’m sorry,” Bilbo says and attempts to detach himself. Thorin can see his expression grow shuttered and his heart clenches. “I shouldn’t have –“

“No,” Thorin interrupts, surprising himself at how hoarse his own voice sounds, “No, Bilbo, please.” He barely even grasps what he is asking, but he pushes on regardless. “I … Please don’t do this. I know, I have no right to ask this of you. Shouldn’t even be here, really.”

The chuckle sounds nearly hysterical. His pulse speeds.

“But, Bilbo, I – whatever I can do – whatever any of us can do – please tell us. Do not hold back,” Thorin pleads, “Do not keep this to yourself. We – I – whatever we can do, we will.”

Bilbo has stopped in his movement and watches Thorin with wide eyes. Something unsteady flickers within them. “Whatever I wish?” he echoes, shakily, “What if I –” Hands tug at Thorin’s tunic again, trying to pull him closer. “What if I asked for this?”

The glint in Bilbo’s eyes is not quite sane. Thorin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Then I will comply,” he mumbles, tilting his head just so.

Bilbo flinches back as if burned. “Don’t do that,” he hisses, “Don’t – don’t act like a doormat! Stop making me the evil party in this!” The accusation pierces right through Thorin’s chest; this is the last thing he wanted.

“I’m not, Bilbo,” he stammers and catches the hobbit by the wrists before Bilbo can disentangle himself, “I only want to – to help.”

Bilbo glares at him. “So you’d do whatever I say? What if I asked you to hand me your crown? Your life?”

Thorin grinds his teeth, but does not loosen his grip. “I would,” he vows, reaffirming his promise, “Anything you ask.”

Bilbo tries to shrug him off, face twisting. “So that’s what this all is. In the end, everything is about making amends, isn’t it? Earning forgiveness,” Bilbo spits, “I should make good use of that, really. A King at my beck and call.” He shakes his head, visibly disgusted.

“And here I thought my company was appreciated,” he says, “But it’s all about honor in the end. And what I held for … for friendship must have been an illusion.” His voice cracks, and the pain comes through.

Thorin’s eyes widen. He leans in. “Never, Bilbo,” he says, “Never. I – this is not about me, never. I only want to –”

“Then why are you acting like this?” Bilbo interrupts harshly and fresh tears glint in his eyes, “Have we been friends or did I imagine it?”

Thorin’s mind screeches to an abrupt halt. He’s not dared to allow himself to contemplate any equal relationship with Bilbo, not since that terrible day when his mind allowed madness to rule. It wouldn’t be honorable, wouldn’t be fair – would be asking for too much. He could never –

“We, I,” he stutters, because Bilbo wants an answer, and Thorin feels if he fails now he will lose Bilbo forever. They all will lose their little burglar, and a part of Thorin that yet dimly recalls what he wants knows this cannot be allowed to happen.

“Of course,” he hears himself mumble, “We – I certainly thought of you as a friend. More dear than a friend, truly, but I cannot dare hope that after what I did you would even contemplate giving me that chance once again.”

Something in his words must have been right. Tension seeps from Bilbo’s frame and his face relaxes slightly.

“I think that is for me to decide,” Bilbo says, quietly, “Unless you rather wouldn’t…”

Thorin’s throat closes up, “You…”

Bilbo looks away. “It’s as I said, Thorin. I can’t forgive you, but I can’t hate you either. It would probably be easier if I could, but I don’t.”

“Do you want to?” Thorin asks. He could probably make Bilbo hate him. Only he doesn’t want to.

Bilbo looks at him oddly. “No, no. Thorin, you saw what happens when I act on what I want.”

“That,” Thorin stammers before he can quite stop himself, “That kiss was what –”

Bilbo flinches. “I didn’t know what came over me,” he answers evasively, “I didn’t mean to.”

But a part of him did, and some flame lights up in Thorin’s chest. A desire to bring clarity into this mess, to puzzle things out. To find out if Bilbo desires what has once again taken root in Thorin’s heart.

“I did not push you away,” Thorin says quietly.

“You weren’t too shocked?” Bilbo asks promptly, wide eyes finding Thorin’s, and recognizing the honesty in them. “You – oh. Oh.”

A faint flush rises to his cheeks. Thorin’s heart swells, while Bilbo primly retracts his arms and glances to his lap. “Then I really shouldn’t have done it. Sorry, Thorin, I – I don’t think we should do this.”

The others would have long since taken Thorin’s head, had they been here to witness how forward Thorin has behaved. He shakes his head in agreement. “We shouldn’t.”

Green eyes come up to find his again. They swim with pain; the same pain that is tearing apart Thorin’s heart. Even if anything had ever been possible between, it is best to move on. Bilbo mumbles something, but then shakes his head.

“I’m tired,” he says, and slowly sinks back against the pillows.

“Then I will not keep you any longer,” Thorin returns and makes to stand. Bilbo reaches out for him, but stops himself before he can take hold of Thorin’s tunic.

“Would you stay?” Bilbo asks, “Just for a moment. Tell me a bit about what’s happening. It feels like an eternity since I last was outside. Is the snowstorm still raging?”

Thorin settles back into his chair. He takes Bilbo’s hand and draws it into his lap, rubbing the skin to warm it up. Bilbo does not flinch, instead closes his eyes and relaxes.

“The storm is moving on,” Thorin begins softly, “Oin thinks it will have passed by midday tomorrow. There are boats from the south waiting to cross the long lake. The boats you and Fili commissioned. They made a swift journey and apparently bring fresh food.”

Bilbo makes a small noise, though he seems to be falling asleep. He looks eerily small and fragile like this. Thorin shudders and makes himself continue talking. “Bombur is planning on using the fresh ingredients for a feast. They all agree the feast should be to honor the coronation, but I’m not sure.”

Because the coronation will require Bilbo attending and playing his part. Laid out here, pale and thin, Thorin fears what this further burden will do to him.

“We could always celebrate being alive,” he continues, “Or the successful revival of the old alliance between Erebor and Dale. There are various things we could celebrate, after all.” Reasons that do not involve his coronation.

Bilbo’s breathing has evened out. Thorin carefully settles the hand back on Bilbo’s chest and draws the covers up a little higher.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs before gliding from the room.

***

Gloin does not feel old very often. By dwarf standards, he’s in his best years, and many of the company were a good deal older. But sitting in conference with Fili, Kili and Ori makes him feel positively ancient.

“Fror’s strewing rumors,” Kili reports unhappily, his tone a sharp contrast to his relaxed posture. If one didn’t know better, they’d see three young dwarves lounging around; Kili has his fee on the table, Fili rests his head on folded arms and Ori broods over a mess of scribbles.

“Undermining Thorin or Bilbo?” Ori inquires without looking up.

“Both, I think,” Kili replies. Fili sighs, and Ori shifts one of his papers. “One rumor, or various different stories?”

Gloin wonders, once more, what he’s here for.

“Various,” Kili says, “Bofur, Bard and Nori each had different stories. The mountain’s rife with fantastic tales.”

“Why won’t they just accept our story?” Fili sighs, “It’d be so easy.”

“They’re bored,” Ori responds without missing a beat, “They’ve probably accepted our version, but anything with the smell of a forbidden secret clinging to it is terribly tempting at these times.”

Fili grumbles and shuts his eyes again. Dark shadows cover the skin underneath them, and he appears haggard. The last weeks have eaten away at him.

“Do you think Fror will make a move before the coronation?” Gloin asks.

Kili shrugs, Fili sighs again and grumbles: “Probably.”

Ori glances up. “He’s losing power and standing. Once Thorin’s crowned, going against him will not be easy.”

“The coronation is in two days,” Gloin mutters, “What can he do?” He wishes the coronation was done and over, and they all could relax a little. At least the weather outside is improving, though with winter having settled in, the Laketown folks will likely stay a while longer.

“A lot,” Kili snorts, fiddling with the hemline of his shirt. It’s a rather fine garment, Gloin notices – and Kili does not look all that comfortable in it. Like everything in Erebor, now that they have claimed it, they all find the kingdom is claiming a price higher than they expected. And there is a small part of Gloin wondering if he should not write home and tell his family to remain – remain lest they become pawns in the court intrigues of Erebor.

“Actually,” Ori suggests and leans forward, “I was thinking about how we could undermine him. We need to distract everybody from the rumors Fror is trying to spread – people are bored and need things to speculate on and there are only so many versions of the quest that can be told. We need to give them something new.”

Fili straightens. “You have an idea?”

Gloin leans back. Ori’s eyes glint, and he wonders what happened to the timid scribe that set out from the Blue Mountains. Of all dwarves in Thorin’s company, Ori turns out to be the one right at home in the power gambits that steer kingdoms and countries.

“Yes,” Ori says confidently, “Your uncle just needs to agree. But if he accepts, we could not only kill Fror’s rumors, but also win over those nobles yet undecided.”

Kili’s eyes widen, and Gloin, too, glances up in surprise. “How?”

Ori smiles.

***

Bilbo sighs as another chest is delivered to his room. The dwarves trudge out, but Dori stays, taking in Bilbo’s pallor and the dark circles underneath his eyes.

The last nights have not been kind.

Now that he has made up his mind to not hate Thorin – to give into that foolish notion and try to salvage what he can – his mind has surged up with a fury. He doesn’t think he’s slept more than three hours perhaps, and even on the brink between sleep and wakefulness the nightmares followed.

A part of him has wished to go and see Thorin. See whether the panic that leaves him breathless and sweat-soaked in the night will rear up during daytime too, or whether the Thorin of his nightmares is a monster of his own mind.

“Have you seen Oin?” Dori asks and draws Bilbo from his dark ruminations.

Bilbo nods. “First thing in the morning.” He doesn’t much like the prodding, though Oin means well. At least the bruises on his face have started healing. The bandages have been taken off, and the swelling has gone down – he won’t look an utter fright at Thorin’s coronation.

“And he didn’t keep you?” Dori inquires.

“He can come into my rooms anytime he wants,” Bilbo says, “There’s not much reason for me to stay in the healing rooms.” Especially since now they are growing crowded with other patients. Men and women from Laketown sick with cold. Sprained ankles, broken fingers, and the other everyday injuries that always occur.

Dori nods, still assessing Bilbo unhappily. “Well, if you’re alright, shall we go through the coronation?”

***

"He's not going to talk unless we make a deal," Nori huffs as he sits down in the chair across Balin's desk, "His deal, to be precise. Figured just how keen we're on seeing the old man judged, so he's going to barter his way out of the dungeons."

Balin doesn't look up from the report he's writing. Just hours ago Bard dropped his catalogue of Dale's stores and stocks on his desk. With Dain's number of how much grain the Iron Hills can ship over winter, it'll now only take simple math to if they need to send a caravan south again.

"What about his compatriot?" Balin inquires.

"Keeps silent," Nori replies with a shrug, "Has probably figured relying on Haugar is his best shot at walking out of this with both his beard and head attached."

Balin hums. "Which they can't," he decrees calmly, "Thorin cannot show weakness now. They must lose their bears at least."

Nori sees the reason. Yet it still takes him by surprise to hear Balin so swiftly and easily condemn them. "Then Fror walks. It'll only be a question of time until he tries again."

"Yes, though I believe your little brother may be preparing something to spite him," Balin replies,

"Fror's power is breaking up. Once he's sufficiently weakened, we won't need Haugar to accuse him."

"Ori?" Nori asks, momentarily perplexed, "What'd he do?"

Balin looks up with a small smile on his face. "Hinted that following the coronation Thorin will appoint ministers and hire staff."

Nori chuckles. "Which will leave them scurrying to gain Thorin's favor. And since he declared Bilbo more important than the Arkenstone, it'll leave all that spoke out against him in a rather unpopular situation. Clever."

Balin writes down another line, and then pushes the document aside, satisfied.

"So, will he?" Nori inquires, "Appoint ministers?"

"I think so," Balin replies.

Nori leans back, whistles. “Then we’ll have a recently appointed Minister of Justice – who’s bound to be eager to please Thorin – judging Fror and his cronies. Nice.”

***

Bad idea, Thorin tells himself even as he raps his knuckles against the sturdy wood of Bilbo’s door. He shouldn’t have come here.

“It’s open,” Bilbo calls from within.

Thorin takes a deep breath and enters. A fire flickers merrily in the fireplace, a curious assortment of comfortable chairs placed around a low table before it. Whoever picked the rooms for Bilbo did a fine job – they are spacious, and yet do not feel too vast. Not like the King’s chambers Thorin does not truly wish to return to tonight.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greets, paling, “What brings you here?”

He shouldn’t have come, Thorin realizes. The coronation tomorrow has all their nerves blank, and Bilbo more than most carries a huge burden. His presence is neither helpful nor required.

“Apologies,” he says with a shake of his head, “I’m afraid I allowed my feet to lead me. I won’t disturb you any longer.”

“Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?” Bilbo asks, gesturing at the chairs, “Unless you have an appointment elsewhere?”

Thorin swallows drily. Then his feet move forward and he sinks into one of the chairs. It’s old, groans under his weight, but the cushions enfold him and he’s sighing as tension seeps from his bones. Bilbo settles opposite him, and smiles.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Terribly,” Thorin returns, closing his eyes and shifting just so. The knots in his back begin to unravel.

“Well, it’s a big day tomorrow,” Bilbo says and pushes a cup of steaming tea toward Thorin. “Try this one, Bombur said they found it somewhere in the stores. It’s rather nice.”

Thorin takes a sip, letting the flavors caress his tongue. “It is,” he agrees as the warmth settles in his stomach, “And I’ll be glad once tomorrow is done and over.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Aren’t we all?” He takes a sip, and Thorin can see the mirth vanish from his eyes. “Do you think Fror will stop his machinations then?”

Thorin swallows. Seeing the kernel of fear – hearing the question Bilbo doesn’t voice – he wants to dissuade that idea. But he must shake his head. “It will weaken him, but he is powerful. Though now that we’re watching him, he cannot attempt anything untoward.”

At least he should not. He already managed to puppeteer two attempts on Bilbo’s life.

“You could stay with Fili and Kili,” Thorin suggests, “He’ll not dare do anything with them present.” And his nephews will protect their burglar, too. Even from him if they must.

“Last I saw them they seemed fairly busy as well.”

“That can –“

“Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly, “I cannot forever rely on the kindness of others. And I will not impose on them in during these dreadful days when they already have so much on their plates.”

Thorin sighs and deflates. “I just wish I could do something to help you.” The shadows under Bilbo’s eyes are deep and dark and Thorin would like nothing better than to wipe them away. “At least to help you sleep.”

Bilbo smiles sadly. “You aren’t sleeping very well either, are you?”

Thorin doesn’t say anything in return. Between the worries gnawing on his heart, the things that demand his attention and the nightmares those last few nights have not been restful. The sleep Oin forced him to catch has all but worn off.

“You know what,” Bilbo says and pushes his own teacup back, “It may be a foolish notion – but how about you stay here?”

Thorin looks up, surprised. “What?”

Bilbo twists in his seat. “Well, it’s probably a terrible idea. But that way, at least if we don’t sleep, we can always talk.”

Thorin blinks. It’s a terrible idea.

Just as terrible as kissing Bilbo.

He’s still the reason behind all the terror Bilbo endured. Madness or no, it were his hands that pushed Bilbo in that chest, and just thinking of it makes his stomach twist, and he cannot, cannot in good conscience expect any welcome here. Should never have come, should not be –

Bilbo watches him attentively. His posture is wary – as it should – and yet he does not retreat.

And reason fails Thorin once more. “Alright.”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to hunt me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com) to update this faster.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin spends the night. And the coronation follows.

They settle comfortably on a large, old sofa. 

Bilbo provides them with two steaming cups of tea, apologizes for not having biscuits, while Thorin sinks deeper into the cushion. Tension drains from his body, but the idea of tomorrow hangs heavily in the air. 

“Or maybe you should go and get some sleep,” Bilbo says, apropos of nothing, “It’s your big day tomorrow, after all.”

Thorin sighs deeply and lets his head fall back, while Bilbo observes his reaction with a shallow chuckle. 

“Is the crown truly such a heavy burden? After all you went through to regain your homeland?” Bilbo asks quietly, his eyes fixed on the tea. 

Thorin catches the solemn note and straightens. With all the unrest and difficulties of the last days, he truly contemplated how much easier things would be if he left the crown to Dain – let him worry about the petty nobles and their intrigues, let him struggle to figure out who to count on.

“No,” Thorin answers evenly, “No. Erebor is my home, and to reclaim it – my father and my grandfather wanted to see it done. My brother wished for it and did not live to see it. I am glad that my nephews are here to witness these moments.”

“And many more will be glad to hear the word,” Bilbo adds, directing a shy smile toward Thorin over the rim of his mug. 

“They will,” Thorin agrees, “Already Dain said that many of his men would stay if I allowed it. The Iron Hills are prosperous, but they are small, and there is not much work there to be found. Here, we have stone to mine and metal to work.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Bilbo says, relaxing back into the sofa, face turned toward Thorin now. The months of travel and hardship have left their traces on his features – scars and hollowness to his cheeks – but Thorin is glad to see that despite everything, a soft, gentle warmth remains in Bilbo’s eyes. And he does his best to reflect the expression.

“I would really like to see it.”

“You are always welcome here,” Thorin says, the smile coming easy to him now. He shouldn’t, but he finds himself reaching out, setting a hand on Bilbo’s leg, just over his knee. “We’ll prepare a decent set of chambers for you, so you’d always have a place to stay. A home here, if you wish to.”  
And even though Thorin knows he should not say this, should not dare to think of Bilbo staying for why would he stay at the place where so many terrible things happened to him, he finds his heart warming at the idea. 

Bilbo smiles as well. “That sounds lovely. But I suppose first you must prepare the mountain for the dwarves returning. Though I heard the Laketown folks who are staying here are doing quite a bit of clean-up.”

“We have to thank Bombur for this,” Thorin chuckles, “Apparently the men expected to do everything for themselves, and at some point the kitchen staff decided to share forces. It emerged that the men were quite willing to help with cleaning and dusting.”

“That’s good.”

“Indeed.” It also, Thorin admits, avoids trouble. With so many cooped up inside the mountain of which many areas are barely inhabitable, tensions are bound to run high. Adding boredom to the mix might have turned explosive – so offering work and reward solves these problems.

The silence between them stretches for a while, but it is comfortable. Thorin stares at the flickering flames, his hand still resting on Bilbo’s leg, enjoying the feeling of familiarity. Of peace. 

“I’m glad,” Bilbo mumbles, eyes almost closed, “Glad we ended up retaking Erebor.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “There were times I wasn’t certain it was all worth it, but hearing Dori talk of the coronation earlier, I just remembered what made me run after you in the first place. That it wasn’t about the treasure, but about a home. And I’m glad you have that back.” 

Thorin swallows hard. “I am glad, too,” he presses out, his throat closing, “I thought – I think there was a part of me that was not sure if it was possible.”

Bilbo chuckles, though his eyes remain closed; his expression peaceful. “That’s quite understandable, what with that dragon. But in the end, it was not the dragon that was the worst…”

He trails off, and Thorin thinks he agrees. His own actions, his madness – had he only watched himself more closely, paid more attention – 

“Though I shouldn’t have been surprised,” Bilbo continues, “After I saw what you thirteen did to Bag End, I should have expected things to go pear-shaped the moment that many dwarves converge. Some of Dain’s advisors would really do well in Hobbiton. Minus the violence, of course.”

Though Bilbo means it lightly, Thorin’s heart grows heavy again. He should not have plucked Bilbo from his home, drawn him so deep into their troubles.

“But I’m glad I was there, Thorin,” Bilbo says, and opens his eyes to look at Thorin, “I’m glad we made it in the end.”

It’s not all said and done, so Thorin should protest. But once tomorrow has passed and the crown sits on his head and the Arkenstone is reinstated, their enemies have lost their best chance. So Thorin finds himself mesmerized by the affection in Bilbo’s eyes, and knows he does not deserve it. 

And still.

“Yes,” he agrees and leans forward until his forehead touches Bilbo’s. His hand leaves the hobbit’s leg and comes up to settle gently against Bilbo’s cheek, caress the soft skin there until his fingers brush over the scar of a healing cut. 

“And if I had to do it all again, I would,” Thorin says reverently, “Everything. There is nothing I would not give to take back this home for my kin.”

“But you should have never had to pay that price.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen. For a fraction of a moment Thorin can see him remember, feels the pain of that shadow tear through himself. 

“Though without you the quest would have failed,” Thorin says, gently brushing his thumb over the scar, “We’d never have reached Erebor, much less reclaimed it. Your help has been invaluable, Bilbo, and I feel our kind has been utterly ungrateful.”

He sighs. “My own deeds are unforgivable. What we asked of your after even more so. And in that time when we should have shielded you from all harm, we allow more to come to you at the hand of petty, deceitful nobles.” Thorin shakes his head. “Worst of all, I cannot promise that none will plot against you again. We dwarves are stubborn creatures, distrustful of outsiders – you have seen this yourself. And we may give you treasures and titles, and yet there is bound to be some dwarf somewhere disagreeing.”

Maybe he should make an edict to forbid such behavior. 

Bilbo, however, reaches out to rest his own hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “Any hobbit would be the same. Worse perhaps,” he says, “I don’t think there is any other species on Middle Earth so inclined to gossip.”

Thorin feels himself chuckling despite his heavy heart. This is why he has fallen for Bilbo Baggins. This is why it had been inevitable from the start. 

“But your kind is not so prone to violence,” Thorin replies gently. 

“Gossip can be its own form of violence,” Bilbo says and edges a little closer. “In truth,” he continues, eyes turning to a distant point behind Thorin’s shoulder for a moment, “I’m not sure what awaits me in Hobbiton. I’ve always been a bit of an ill fit, though I’d learned to behave

respectably. Until you lot came along.”

His hand drifts to Thorin’s nape, sliding into the hair there, and Thorin feels warms curse through his entire body. 

“Perhaps I’m too changed for the Shire now,” Bilbo contemplates out loud. 

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says, though the words taste like ash. “If you had not come –“

“Shush,” Bilbo interrupts him, “Gandalf was quite right. Running out of my door was the best decision I could have taken, and I would not have it any other way.”

“Even though it brought you so much trouble?” 

“It brought me here.” Bilbo smiles brilliantly at him. “Right to the impossible goal no one thought we could achieve.”

And with Bilbo’s face so close to his own, and the hobbit’s slender hand tugging him closer still, Thorin leans forward and presses his lips to Bilbo’s. Gently, their touch is answered and they kiss, chaste and temperate and with a patience born from their fatigue and the horrors that haunt them. 

It shouldn’t feel like healing. Not when Thorin is the reason behind so many of Bilbo’s hurts, not when Bilbo reminds Thorin of the guilt he bears. But it’s like the sharp, shattered pieces of his soul are beginning to mend.

***

Thorin wakes before sunrise, a soft weigh leaning against his chest. They ended up falling asleep, leaning against each other, and Thorin casts a smile at Bilbo’s relaxed face. 

The hobbit does not wake when Thorin gets up, and he makes sure to wrap the blanket closely around his resting form. He will need his quiet for the day to come – they will all need their strength to make it through. 

Hopefully at the end of the day, Bilbo will still think it has been worth it.

Thorin stokes the fire, adds wood to warm the room. Casting one last look over his shoulder, he slides out, and feels the gentle warmth that enveloped him in Bilbo’s presence slide away. He needs to be Erebor’s King now, proud and strong. 

The coronation looms and he must prepare.

***

“Shall we get going?” Bofur asks with forced cheer. 

Bilbo nods with a sigh and casts one last look toward the mirror. The bandages are gone and the cuts on his face have mostly healed, and yet it is a stranger looking back at him. Pale and lean and dressed in solemn, heavy dwarven garments, the creature in the mirror seems not very hobbit-like at all. 

Will he ever look like a proper hobbit again, Bilbo wonders morosely. Though he knows that even should he regain the weight and color, the experiences of the journey and in this mountain have changed him irreversibly. There is no going back.

The door closing behind him echoes like a thunderclap and Bilbo swallows down the trepidation. He clutches the small, richly decorated chest a bit tighter. Having a servant carry it would have been more appropriate, Dori had informed him, yet as even such a gesture could be read as a proclamation of political intent, Bilbo in the end had been left with no choice but to take the stone on his own.

At least he does not need to look at it.

Still, knowing he holds it, knowing what madness it has inspired makes him nervous.

Bofur leads the familiar way in silence. Already the corridors are mostly empty but for some latecomers and the guard. All chandeliers are lit, and Bilbo now can see the work that has been done: the marble in the great corridor leading from Erebor’s entrance hall to the Hall of the Kings has been fixed. No trace of the dragon can be found, the gold mosaics have been restored and to any visitor Erebor must look as she did at the zenith of her wealth.

Bilbo thinks of Thorin’s words on simplicity. And understands that in the end they had no choice but to stage a grand ceremony.

“Do you hear it?” Bofur asks.

Bilbo glances up, catches the faint echo of a solemn melody. “The music?”

“Aye,” Bofur nods, “Gloomy, ain’t it?”

Another set of chords drifts past them and Bilbo finds himself agreeing. “You could always start a song once the official part is done with.”

Bofur laughs. “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I? Else everybody’ll be wondering just whose funeral it is. I’ve never understood why these occasions require sad music. You’d think a coronation would be considered something cheerful.”

“I think it’s something to do with gravitas,” Bilbo replies drily. 

“Yeah, well, if I ever get crowned King of something, my hymn will be the Man in the Moon,” Bofur says, and the mental picture Bilbo gets is so amusing, his lips begin to twitch. 

“That would gain some cheerful renditions, I believe,” he says, and his chest feels a little lighter even though the music now has become melancholy and grave. 

Bofur nods along, but then falls silent as ahead of them the enormous double door looms. “Well, here we are,” he says, sotto voce, and Bilbo swallows. He will do this, he tells himself. Sit through the coronation, cheer and nod at the right moments, and when all is said and done he will move forward and give Thorin the Arkenstone. To show before all and the world that the madness is gone, the peace has been restored and Thorin is King under the Mountain.

The guards positioned next to the gate bow, and then the doors open.

A myriad of golden lights lightens the Hall of Kings like a million of stars. Their glow reflects on polished, green marble and golden decoration inlaid into delicate stone work. The music echoes in here, louder now, and mixed with a million of quietly chattering voices into something that seems like an elaborate song. 

Tapestries hang from the ceiling, repaired and reworked, their holes filled with rubies and sapphires. Dwarves line the walkways and balconies, dressed in their best robes of rich velvets and brocades. Up high on several balconies an elven delegation counting at least fifty shines in light silks of silver, grey and midnight blue, while the Lakemen on the balconies adjacent have arrived in furs and leathers. 

They alone, Bilbo thinks, appear earthly. All else, all dwarves and elves now look like creatures from a fairytale, dressed in clothes beyond any hobbits’ imagination and moving in a swirl of fantastic colors. Gemstones and jewels glitter, and there is a part of Bilbo inclined to stop and gawk – he feels as if he stepped into a dream.

And yet he knows the room and recognizes the faces. Knows that underneath his silvery, ruby-decked crown that imitated a snow-covered berry-bush, Thranduil watches the proceedings with sharp eyes. Realizes the little cease between Bard’s eyebrows gives away the bowmen’s doubts as to this occasion. Why the riches, why the splendor – Bilbo wonders the same.

Erebor may be rich in treasures. But that is all they have.

“Master Baggins,” somebody greets, and Bilbo looks up to see a vaguely familiar dwarf nod at him. The movement makes the golden and purple beads in his hair knock against each other with a high, clinkering sound, and Bilbo distractedly returns the greeting.

More dwarves greet him. Few Bilbo recognizes from the council meetings he attended. Many more, he does not know. But being the lone hobbit in a mountain of dwarves makes him stand out – and his connection to Thorin and standing as a member of the company even more so. 

He’s glad when he does not see Fror.

A shudder runs down his spine and for a moment the ever-present darkness in his chest wells up. But then Bofur says, “Ah, there they are!” and Kili calls out “Bofur! Bilbo!”, and with his friends smiling at him, Bilbo easily can brush the terror aside.

Kili looks almost unfamiliar in the gem-studded clothes. His hair has been carefully braided, a small circlet sits on his head, and his smile is a tad too wide, caught somewhere between excitement and fear. “Good, now we only have to wait for Oin, then we can start.”

“And get this done and over with,” Fili mutters, eyeing the assembled crowd with barely-veiled trepidation. 

One day, Bilbo thinks, Fili will be the one they all look to. One day they will expect him to lead such a ceremony. Judging by Fili’s pale face he hopes that day will never come. 

Later, Bilbo will not remember a word of the light, nervous chatter they exchanged then. With so many eyes following their every step, no meaningful discussions could possibly take place, so Bilbo soon tunes out. Instead he gazes at the crowd, the many unfamiliar faces and the tension in the air. Most dwarves appear optimistic; he spots far more smiles than frowns, and while Bilbo knows of the greed that has been projected onto the mountain, here he begins to sense the significance Erebor has for those not lusting for its riches. 

The hope for a better future. 

It has been long since Bilbo thought of that. Among the intrigues and the pain, he’d often wondered whether Erebor was worth it. Whether the high price the lost kingdom made them pay could ever possibly be redeemed. 

Perhaps, Bilbo now thinks, it will. 

On a silent signal the music stops and the dwarves hurry to their seats. Others – those that have no seats – stick to the sides of the aisles so that the central aisle remains empty. Bilbo takes his place among the members of the company, seated to the left and right of the throne. Fili and Kili take their places on the left and right, Dwalin’s and Balin’s chairs remain empty. Bilbo catches sight of Balin standing next to Dain decked out in a rich, dark red robe. Of Dwalin there is no trace.

Before he can turn to ask, the doors open and the hall falls silent.

Thorin marches in, proud and straight in dark blues inlaid with silver stitching. It is not the dark black fur coat he donned in his madness and Bilbo’s heart lightens to see him in familiar colors. But even to the untrained eye the richness of the fabric is obvious and the runic patterns used silver, diamond and mithril. 

And yet for all its splendor it is a far from ostentatious. Many nobles were brighter cloaks and more jewels in their hair. Thorin looks solemn, like a statue of an ancient mythical King of old come to life, and Bilbo finds his heart skipping a beat. This is the King Thorin was always supposed to be.

Seeing him like this makes the horror Bilbo experienced at his hands feel like a fiction, a nightmare. Something utterly unimaginable.   
Thorin arrives before the Dais on which the throne stands. He looks to Balin and to Dain, and the entire hall seems to take a deep breath. Then Thorin puts a foot forward and climbs the stairs, step by step until he reaches the throne upon which the polished crown awaits.

“Long have we awaited this day,” Balin speaks to all, “Long have we dreamed to reclaim our homeland, and long were the hours of our exile.”

Thorin raises the crown, turns to the crowd. Bilbo’s heart skips a beat.

“It is now ended,” Balin proclaims proudly and Thorin slowly lowers the crown upon his own head. 

“Long live the King!” Dain shouts and the hall breaks into a deafening cheer. Bofur jumps up from his seat, Bifur and Nori follow, and Dain throws his head back and laughs and Bilbo watches other dwarves in the audience hug and butt their heads together and throw their arms up. 

The nobles, however, standing to the side with Dain, refrain from expressing such exuberance. Some even look impatient, and Bilbo bristles at the reminder.

“Long live the King! Long live the King!” the cheers echoes and echoes, swirling over a cacophony of wordless triumphal shouts and Bilbo is mesmerized by the picture Thorin cuts: proud and noble and every inch of him worthy of reverence.

He does not look like one a simple hobbit could ever kiss.

And yet – Bilbo feels his own lips begin to curl – underneath this revered façade rests a person of deep frowns and gentle smiles, and for all of Thorin’s failings, for all the pain Bilbo went through on his behalf – 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

While the crowd around them celebrates, Dain clears his throat. In the chaos, the noise is drowned, though Bilbo sees Thorin stiffen and Balin wander toward his chair to take a seat. Kili’s and Fili’s expressions become serious once more – there is more to come, yet. And Bilbo uncomfortably reaches for the small chest he set underneath his seat.

This he must face.

Dain clear’s his throat again. It’s futile – only a few dwarves close to him hear, and fewer still take notice. Instead, Bombur produces an old, oddly-shaped horn – and the deep, solemn note cuts through the cheer and bluster and all dwarves turn once again to the throne.

“We will celebrate,” Thorin announces solemnly, “When the hour arrives. But first I would see the old pacts renewed!”

His words are greeted with enthusiastic cheers, though the dwarves return to a more orderly arrangement. The central aisle clears, just in time to make place for Thranduil and Bard, each accompanied by an entourage bearing their banners, come through.

Bard looks faintly uncomfortable, Bilbo thinks as he watches them. His fur coat is a bit large and worn – even with Erebor opening her coffers, Dale is yet barely more than a ruin. 

“King Thranduil,” Thorin intones evenly, “Lord Bard.” 

The two stop just before the dais. And while Thorin could stay up on his throne – Dori explained that much about protocol to Bilbo – Thorin walks down the steps. It throws into stark relief the height difference, and yet to Bilbo Thorin does not look any less for it. 

“I would see the former ties that bound together our realms forged anew. Mayhaps these are darker times where evil preys on our borders, but just in these we may defend them as one,” Thorin speaks solemnly, “So that our cities can prosper and our citizens will know no lack or peril, and that together we can restore to glory this part of the world. To a glory based on our skills and knowledge and cooperation. Together, we will make the east prosper!”

“Aye,” says Bard smoothly, stepping forward, “I would see the east restored.”

Thranduil steps forward with far less enthusiasm. “I, too, would have my kingdom prosper and be safe.”

“Then together we shall see it done!” Thorin declares proudly, though Bilbo can imagine he’d like to strangle Thranduil. Bilbo would like to claim he understands Thranduil’s concerns – to immortal elves these temporary triumphs and losses must always be a passing thing. Mustering enthusiasm for ever new rulers and their plans must come hard at some point.

Yet did not Thranduil fight in battle, too? Does he not also understand the importance of seeing the east strengthened? 

The audience, at least, has no misgivings. The moment Dain raises a toast to the East, they cheer and clap and stomp and for a moment Bilbo thinks they’re going to dissolve into a happy, all-out brawl. But then Dain clears his throat again, in vain, until Dwalin shouts for quiet.

Somewhat reluctantly, the dwarves comply.

Bilbo’s heart sinks. He knows what comes next, finds himself already reaching for the box underneath his chair. The wood feels smooth underneath his sweaty fingers, and abruptly his joy at seeing Thorin crowned is gone.

All he can think of is the thrice-cursed stone in that box, the grief it caused. The feeling of phantom hands on his skin makes his hair stand on ends and his breathing speeds up. 

“Peace, peace,” Dain cries cheerfully, though to Bilbo it feels as if his voice comes from a very distant place, “There is more to be done!”

“Aye,” Bard inclines his head, and Bilbo can see him and Thorin and Thranduil look to him. His knees grow weak and he feels very dizzy and weak. Only this, this he must do, and then the stone will hopefully not ever haunt him again. Too much pain it has already caused. 

“When we last spoke to each other,” Bard says and his voice carries through the hall that has gone silent once again, “The idea of war was not yet far. Many questions were not answered, much grief lay between us.”

He makes a break and now looks to Bilbo and many follow his gaze.

“Back then we made an agreement: the day we settled for peace the Arkenstone was to be returned. And as a guarantee for peace until that day, the Arkenstone was to be withheld by the one individual here with no claim to land or interest here.”

“Through much trouble and turmoil Master Baggins has kept the Arkenstone safe for us,” Thorin adds with gravitas and Bilbo feels as if the clothes he wears are becoming too large, as if the role he is cast into has become too enormous and will devour him.  

He stands from his seat, ignoring both the curious and the skeptical gazes cast his way, ignores the way his vision has begun to blur and his chest can’t quite seem to expand. 

“Tell us, Master Baggins of Bag End,” Thranduil speaks up, “Has our agreement secured peace for the east?”

This isn’t the role he signed up for, Bilbo wants to scream. This wasn’t in the briefing Dori gave him. He’d hand the Arkenstone to Thorin and be done, no need for speeches or questions; and that ridiculous idea that he would be the one to guarantee the peace – 

But there is a kingdom of dwarves, a delegation of men and a host of elves all waiting expectantly for his answer. 

So Bilbo forces a calm smile and speaks as evenly as he can. “It is done.”

His words are greeted with an ear-shattering applause, and only Balin’s sharp nod makes Bilbo remember to move. At the first step his knees threaten to buckle, his heart races and he holds onto the box far too hard, but he forces himself forward, his spiraling vision blind to the many eyes watching.

Underneath his feet the stone feels odd, unreal. There is a dreamlike quality to all the faces he passes. They blur and mix with the sparkling gemstones and swirl to a mist of colors under the Hall’s cavernous roof. The fur of his coat brushes against his throat and wrists, and the jewels on it shine brightly. 

And then, finally, he stands before the three Kings. 

It feels like a lifetime has passed since he accepted the stone on the battlefield, among makeshift tents and wounded soldiers, himself barely able to stand upright. Today, there are new wounds on his skin, but his clothes are new and precious, and before him Thorin has eventually become the King he ought to be. 

“It is done,” Bilbo repeats, louder, and his voice echoes as he raises the wooden chest, “The vow that was given has been fulfilled. Peace has come to the east and promises have been exchanged to keep it. Now the Arkenstone shall be returned to its rightful place!”

Bilbo opens the chest. 

As one, the crowd of almost a thousand dwarves surges forward. Elves and men lean from their balconies to catch a glimpse of the precious stone that inspired a thousand tales and a hundred battles. The Arkenstone’s milky light shines brighter on the dark purple velvet it rests on, and Bilbo turns to look at Thorin with anxiety rising in his chest. 

Will seeing the stone cause him to relapse? Might it destroy everything; the hard-won equilibrium they just regained?

But while Bard and even Thranduil stare at the stone in wonder, Thorin looks at Bilbo instead and allows his features to soften for a moment.  
And a fear Bilbo never realized he held, evaporates. 

He almost stumbles, but at least Thorin takes the moment to step forward and reach out. He pauses, just the slightest moment – perhaps for the dramatic effect, though in truth he looks at Bilbo once again – and then takes the stone.

“The Arkenstone is returned!” Thorin proclaims, lifting the gem over his head for everyone to see. His own eyes seek out Bilbo’s, and he smiles ever so slightly. “Peace has been restored to the east! Now let us see it prosper!”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to haunt me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited trial arrives. It's a busy time, and with the largest obstacles removed, the dwarves begin to think about what might be the best for Bilbo.

The rest of the coronation passes in a blur.

Bilbo wants to concentrate, because this is important to Thorin, to his friends. This is the moment they all worked so hard for, but no matter how hard he pinches the skin on his wrist under the long sleeves of his robe, his attention keeps slipping. The words echo and twist, his vision warps and until black flickers at its edges and he can barely hear the words spoken over the pounding of his heart.

Thorin makes announcements. His voice barely manages to penetrate the fog, yet Bilbo clings to it as an anchor. Titles are announces, names tied to them. Some he recognizes, some he has never heard, and he should pay attention, should make an effort to remember the faces and celebrate with his friends.

The world narrows down into a marvelous, glowing nightmare, and Bilbo can only clutch the armrest of his wide chair to ground himself.

Another loud cheer goes up, and Bilbo cannot stop himself from flinching. What do they cheer for, and is it good or ill? It can't be bad, he tries to convince himself, for the ceremony was orchestrated by Thorin, Balin and Ori, and they wouldn't allow for anything untoward to happen. The Arkenstone is returned, Bilbo's role in this is over, he needn't be worried.

Needn't be struggling to breathe as he feels panic rise in his chest. That he knows is irrational, unwarranted, and will only be interrupting this glorious moment, and he should be better now, it's been all so long ago, and Nori is keeping an eye on Fror and all will be well, should be well -

But it's so loud. White noise filling his ears, the way a cascade of gold coins tumbling over a wooden chest sounded, and it shouldn't be the same, cannot be the same, but -

"Bilbo, ye alright?" Bofur asks, his voice cutting through the cotton slowly suffocating Bilbo's mind.

The hobbit blinks, tries to clear his vision, and finds his voice stuck in his throat. He nods tentatively instead - Bofur looks festive, even his head decked out with ornaments, and there is a pin sitting on his chest proclaiming his new position.

"You're not looking too good lad," Bofur comments, his brow ceased, "Wanna go and lie down?"

Bilbo makes an aborted nod toward the celebrating masses. "The coronation," he stutters, his voice coming out wheezy.

Bofur shrugs. "The official part is over, and most here only care for the ale anyway." He stands up, stretches slowly and Bilbo begins to realize that the great hall has almost emptied. The noise, too, has gone, and he finds his pulse beginning to slow.

"What about going to lie down for a moment and returning later?" Bofur suggests, "They'll be carrying on celebrating until tomorrow anyway, and we'll save you some food anyway."

Bilbo recognizes the offer for what it is: his chance to slip away quietly. But with his knees weak as butter and the aftertaste of panic still in his veins, he realizes there is no way he can make it through the celebration.

"Yes," he says, "Yes, I believe that sounds like a good idea."

"Alright, come on," Bofur says and helps Bilbo up.

They make their way to one of the side exits of the hall, and Bofur does not comment on Bilbo's shaky gate. Instead he keeps a companionable arm wrapped around the hobbit's shoulders, making it look for all the world as if they were supporting each other.

With every step they take Bilbo finds the panic recedes a bit further, allowing him to think more clearly.

***

Thorin’s eyes glide over the celebrating crowd, seeking for a mop of blond curls. But there is no trace of Bilbo. A few men remain, enjoying the flowing ale and rich food; though many have already returned to their quarters. This is a celebration of dwarves, Thorin knows some would say, they do not need outsiders.

But maybe next year the men will stay longer.

There is no trace of Bilbo, so Thorin sits back and gazes down at his cup, careful not to let his disappointment show. Though likely it is for the best –the hobbit looked terrible when he handed over the Arkenstone earlier. A shadow of himself, especially compared to the vibrancy of their conversation last night.

He hopes whatever it is will pass quickly, but knows better than to expect it. The hurts Bilbo suffered on his behalf run too deep - their newfound closeness will not heal them overnight.

If ever.

A shadow falls over him, and Thorin jerks from his dark thoughts.

Dwalin inclines his head respectfully, before speaking in a lowered voice: "We just caught Fror and his retinue. They wanted to leave the mountain - we've put them under arrest in their quarters, but we need to bring up charges soon."

A cold shudder runs down Thorin's spine. Time is up - they have to confront Fror and hope it will not rob the young kingdom of all its credibility.

To Dwalin he nods. "We will bring them forward tomorrow."

***

The next day dawns bright and sunny, though far colder than any winter in the Shire. Bilbo still takes a deep breath to chase away the lingering shadows of a nightmare (he should not have expected to sleep well, but waking with a scream lodged in his throat, the blankets suffocating and too much like unforgiving wood, he had to leave the mountain quickly).

"Bilbo," somebody greets loud enough to make the hobbit flinch, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but one of your dwarves told me I might find you here."

Here is the parapets. With the storm moved on, the landscape below has been smothered in white snow. Even Dale seems to have been bleached of all colour, and the shores of the Long Lake are crusted with ice. A fierce wind blows, though the fur coat Dori cut for him keeps Bilbo warm.

Bard, however, shivers. "Quite cold, still."

Bilbo turns to him. "Quite," and as he spies the worries on Bard's brow he glances back to Dale. "I suppose the ruins will have cooled by now. Do you have enough coals and wood for fire?"

Unlikely, he thinks. There was barely anything left in Dale but scorched stone. All burnable materials in that city burned a long time ago. Seen like that, the snowy landscape looks frightening. Beautiful, but deadly.

"Not in the least," Bard returns, far too cheerful for his grim words, "But your King has just offered me to remain in the mountain for the rest of winter."

Bars stomps his feet, obviously struggling to keep warm in his worn leather coat, though Bilbo finds himself too relieved to notice. "That is good."

"It's more than that," Bard continues, shivering and smiling simultaneously, "We'll get work here, too. Help the dwarves clear out the mountain and once spring comes they'll pay us out and with that and your share we'll go on to rebuild Dale."

It might not quite work out as smoothly as that, they both know. But it's a start.

It's a kernel of hope Bilbo can cling to. That even if he himself still feels adrift, caught between terrors and affection and things he finds he cannot name or untangle, the story he is part of finally moves toward a satisfying ending.

***

"Hopefully the men will stay until the caravans arrive," Ori explains to Fili and Kili. They have huddled together on a rug before the fireplace in Ori's rooms, all three rather glad to be out of public sight ever since Fili announced Thorin's verdict.

At least the protests had been drowned out be the loud cheers of the men and women present. Still Fili hadn't missed the glares cast his way. 

And as he hadn't actually been informed what had inspired Thorin's decree, he had had to answer questions of some highly dissatisfied nobles. "What is the King thinking?" Lord Kham had thundered, while his companion had shaken his had.

"My prince," Dain's advisor Loni had begun, "Please explain to me, why. Erebor has barley enough to feed their own, why are we sheltering the men? Is this not a kingdom of dwarves?"

Put on the spot, Fili had turned and calmly regarded the gaggle of nobles in their fur-lined and gem-studded robes behind him, and had understood.

"Because it is the right thing to do," he had said.

"If we send them back, they will die. Of cold, of hunger, I do not know. But I remember what it was like to be hungry, to be cold and to be homeless and dependent on the kindness of others. I know what it feels like to be told sorry, no, and have the door shut in your face.

And I will not do the same."

It had done the trick. And while Fili's memories of those years spent on the road are blurry, the nobles before him must have remembered closing the door before the exiles from Erebor far too well.

They had dispersed.

"The men serve several functions," Ori continues his explanation, since even the right thing to do can be more than just morally right, "They back Thorin, provide him and us with a power base. Bard would never ally himself with any conspirator, and anybody conspiring will be wary of drawing the men in - since any damages suffered by them would likely summon Thranduil."

"He's close with Bard, yes," Kili says, "But why'd he come?" Fili, massaging his leg - the muscles are thankfully de cramping now that he sits - nods.

"He'd not miss a chance to cast ill aspersions on Erebor, would he now?" Ori asks with a too-gleeful chuckle, "he'd be there with an army, ready to go to war on Bard's behalf and maybe reward himself with some nice trinkets in the process."

"He's not our ally," Fili points out. 

Ori shrugs. "No, but he's useful to us. We ally ourselves with the men, we get Mirkwood, too."

It's all rather evil, Fili thinks to himself. If Ori learned this from reading old books, maybe he should have read more, too .

"But what if some of the men steal some of the gold?" Kili asks uneasily.

"I doubt it could happen," Ori replies, "Dwarves guard the treasury. And whether they are loyal to Thorin or have doubts, they'll keep a close eye on the men here. In that we can consider all dwarves on the same side, ugly as it is."

Not only doing the right thing is useful, Fili thinks. Bonedeep, unfounded mistrust works just as well, it seems.

"And even if somebody managed," Ori continues, "I doubt they could carry off enough to make a dent and, anyway, where should they spend it?"

There are no markets in Erebor to waste money on frivolous things. Food is rationed, cloth is being centrally administered - Erebor's gold right now cannot buy anything.

"Did you come up with that?" Kili asks.

In a move more befitting of the shy Ori they know, he ducks his head and blushes. "Balin helped me refine the ideas before I presented them to Thorin."

"Still. It's brilliant," Kili comments in awe.

Fili nods. "Why didn't uncle make you part of his council?"

"He offered," Ori says, "But, well, I don't think I'd enjoy it very much. Also, Nori used to say that sometimes it's better if people don't see you. Or if they see you, think you're harmless."

Which Ori has accomplished wonderfully so far, Fili thinks. To all of the Iron Hill nobles, Ori is the scribe of Thorin's company. Important and and certainly the voice to listen to where the history of the quest is concerned, but not beyond that. That little Ori should be behind the reframing of the narrative of the quest and the concluding battle, that he should have been the one to intentionally add rumors to derail Fror's - Fili doubts even Dori acknowledges that.

"I'm making you my head advisor," Fili declares promptly .

Ori chuckles, his cheeks coloring. "Hopefully that day is still a long time away."

They all laugh at that.

"Still," Kili says as they sober again, "If the men stay, what do we do about food? I heard that one of Bard's ships came back, but that will only last for so long." 

Ori sighs, and leans back. "It's not going to be an easy winter," he admits, "But the traders learned that Rohan and Gondor had plentiful harvests and a number of farmers are willing to send ship loads north - it's a long way, but Erebor pays thrice the price they'd get in the south. By next year we'll hopefully be able to prepare better, though there will be a larger population to feed, too."

"The men could take up farming," Kili suggests, "they did that before, did they not?"

Fili recalls their lessons a bit better. "To a limited extent. The soil here was never extraordinarily fertile, and the dragon may have left his mark. We'll have to see what is possible."

"Bilbo might help us out," Kili suggests, his enthusiasm unbridled, "You saw his garden, he must know a lot about farming and stuff. Maybe Erebor could become the first dwarven kingdom to actually take up agriculture."

It's an endearing vision with a delightful note of scandal to it. Conservative dwarves from the sea to the Orocarni might despair.

"If he stays," Ori echoes solemnly.

Kili's eyes widen. "You think he won't?"

Ori frowns, and Fili sighs. "I think we all wish he would. But considering what happened to him, I think we shouldn't be surprised if he decides to head back to the Shire."

"But Erebor is safe now!" Kili protests, looking between his brother and their scribe, as if asking them to change their minds. "Fror was arrested. He and Haugar and the others will be tried tomorrow!"

Ori cautions: "For the time being, yes. We have done what was possible to secure our position and safety, but as we all remain potential targets , so will Bilbo."

"Also," Fili adds, "He likely has terrible memories of the place already. You know how some can never go near a place where something terrible befell them again - I'm not sure staying in Erebor may not end up hurting Bilbo further."

And in that case he'd rather know him far and happy and healthy, than close by and ill.

"It would hurt uncle," Kili says after a moment. "They have grown closer again."

And that alone is a small miracle, one that Fili never expected. However: "You saw Bilbo after the coronation."

He is not sure whether what lies between Thorin and Bilbo will be enough. Or whether it will help at all. There are too many hurts spun into that connection now for him to believe it may overcome all obstacles. Both, Thorin and Bilbo, are vulnerable.

Ideally, Fili would like to know them both far away from the backstabbing politics of court. Has his uncle not fought long enough? Has he not faced enough hardship yet? But while Thorin cannot be removed from the throne - unless they are willing to forsake the kingdom they sacrificed so much for - Bilbo can leave.

So perhaps, Fili thinks, he should, before the mountain claims an even higher price.

***

Fror's arrest does not cause a large uproar in the mountain, and Thorin thanks Balin's and Ori's delightful sense of timing for that. With the men staying and everybody occupying themselves with exploring and restoring, the ruminations among nobility are of little interest to the majority of dwarves and men in the mountain.

His council, Dain's advisors and several other nobles are in an uproar.

"Unheard of," Lord Kham protests loudly, hitting the table, "This is preposterous! First the men, now this!"

And next to him Loni shakes his head. "With all due respect, your majesty, I understand that this is a highly unusual situation, but please consider the traditions of our kind. We cannot go and pretend they never existed."

"And we have no intention of doing so," Balin interrupts smoothly, exuding a confidence Thorin wishes he could share. "The charges Lord Fror has been arrested on are with our new High Judge, and the public hearing will take place the day after tomorrow. You will find it all proceeds according to our laws and standards."

Loni worries his lips and deflates, while Kham still shakes his head in outrage.

Dain leans forward. "Gentlemen, you all have known and worked alongside Stigur. I would not have recommended him to my cousin for this elated position if I did not have utmost faith in his competence."

"He's ..." Kham begins, and shifts uneasily, "Well, he's well-read, but he - well, he's the son of simple miners. I'm afraid he might miss some of the finer points to a high-profile case such as this."

Thorin frowns. "You said yourself he is well-read and highly experienced. Anything that is law we have in writing. Making judgements based on unwritten rules that are shared only among a limited circle of persons I would consider unwise and potentially destabilizing."

Some look away at that, though Thorin catches sight of Janvi tilting his head in contemplation. "Should not the halfling's action then also be judged in accordance with our laws?" 

Thorin's heart freezes, and he remembers Nori's warning all too well: they do not have anything on Janvi, but he has done his best to make Bilbo's life miserable, and for that alone Thorin would like to wring his neck.

Luckily, Balin intercedes with a sigh speaking of barely suppressed annoyance. "Counselor Janvi, I believe everyone in this room is aware of how dear this issue is to you, and yet everyone in this room is also familiar with the reason of why charging Bilbo Baggins is not actually possible. His actions were well in accord with the outlines of the contract he signed."

"The Arkenstone..." Janvi sputters, two angry red splotches appearing on his face.

"Was never explicitly mentioned as not available to him," Balin replies, "The contract accorded him a fourteenth of the treasure, and did not specifically exclude the Arkenstone from it."

"He should have realized it was special!" Kham protests.

Dain rolls his eyes. "He is, in case you did not notice, not a dwarf. As far as I know, no other race shares our sense of stone. He could have taken it for a pretty bauble." 

Kham shrinks back, and Thorin straightens. "I would also like to remind you that had he not acted, the stone together with all the other treasures would still lie under the claws of a dragon."

And for daring to go up against Smaug alone, Bilbo would have deserved the stone as a reward. Thorin eyes the counsellors, Lords and generals grimly, and while some appear shaken or dissatisfied, quite a number seems as weary of the issue as he is.

Dain leans back in his chair. "Great," he proclaims, "Now that we have discussed this topic for the hundredth time, let's move on to another issue. A raven from the Iron Hills came, and they'll be sending another caravan with supplies, though request we return with said caravan. As some of your and your soldiers hail from Erebor, I would ask you to reach out among your troops who would be inclined to stay."

Balin nods. "The offer is not restricted to dwarves with ties to Erebor. Any skilled craftsmen willing to aid in the rebuilding is welcome. While we do not know how many dwarves will arrive to settle here come spring and summer, we believe there should be enough space to settle all that wish to relocate."

***

Bilbo does not sleep much the night before the trial. As he shrugs on his formal, dark robe, he wonders if he should not agreed to have Balin there be his proxy and stay away from Fror and Haugar and those faces that haunt his nightmares.

He's not actually needed for the trial. Ori, Balin, Nori and Thorin all went lengths to tell him. There are witnesses and writings documenting his part of the tale; he does not need to expose himself to attacked and stress. Oin indeed counseled him firmly against it.

And yet Bilbo finds himself making his way toward the justice hall. It's a grand, circular structure that opens into a central space. One end is flattened, allowing space to sit the high judge and his assistance, while the oppsite end curves in several levels for the accused, their lawyers and any spectators.

Upon his entrance Bilbo finds himself shuffled aside to a separated lounge. Fili and Kili greet him cheerfully, yet there is no denying the tension in their posture. Ori, however, gives Bilbo a confident smile,

"Glad you came," Ori says, "That Fror's going to get his comeuppance."

Bilbo nods, not quite so sure he is ready to see this, but a hush below as Thorin - not wearing his crown, but looking no less regal for it - strides in, followed by Balin, Dain and a number of other dwarves Bilbo does not recognize.

"Let us begin," the High Judge, Stigur, announces, and the dwarves settle. Sweat begins to bead Bilbo's back. Maybe coming here was a bad idea?

"Today we discuss the charges laid against Lord Fror of the Iron Hills by King Thorin, King under the Mountain," Stigur begins solemnly, "His majesty has decreed Fror is to be judged in accordance with our laws, and will, due to his personal position as accuser, not validate or invalidate final judgement."

A low mutter raises from the crowd, but so far all seem to agree.

"His majesty's charges are being seconded by Lord Balin, who also represents Mister Bilbo Baggins, the Masters Dori, Bofur and Gloin of his majesty's company, and as of this morning King Bard has declared to seek retribution for the harm death to Mister Baggins as well."

Bilbo looks to his companions in surprise. "We all were ready to accuse him on your behalf, Bilbo," Fili explains, "It just didn't make sense for us all to do it."

"And what about Bard?" Bilbo mutters. He certainly had hoped to be able to count the man as a friend, but to hear Bard joined in his behalf.

Ori smiles. "He likes you. And it works quite well for us - having Bard on our side erodes the space for any possible conspirators further."

"In another peculiarity regarding this discussion," Stigur continues, "Two of the subjects - namely King Bard and Master Baggins - are not dwarves, but have both agreed to accept the discussion and judgement occurring in accordance with dwarven law. This does, however, not stop them from perusing legal justice in Dale or in the Shire in addition to any judgment made today."

Bilbo swallows. All he wants is for this to be over, to not have to think about it any longer. Banish Fror's face from his memory, together with all those other events.

"Now with the preliminaries established, let us begin," Stigur announces and gestures to the guards next to a door leading onto the ground circuit, "Bring in Lord Fror."

Bilbo's blood runs cold. He shouldn't have come, he thinks, his heart starting to race, he should have stayed away, Oin was right, he is not ready -

The dwarves that marches in looks pompous, dressed out in splendid robes and his beard done in intricate knots. He holds himself proudly, directs a disdainful glare toward Thorin and his accusers - but he doesn't even see Bilbo and the princes.

And for all his grandeur, from Bilbo's perch the dwarf abruptly does not look very scary. Puffed-up, and outraged - and Bilbo still never wants to see him again - but he should not warrant that numbing, bone-deep fear.

"Is this circus going to be over anytime soon?" Fror demands in an uproar, "Those charges are ridiculous!"

"Lord Fror, take your seat," Stigur orders calmly.

Fror opens his mouth to protest, but then seems to think better of it. "I don't think they ever got along," Ori whispers next to Bilbo and the princes, "Or at least I doubt Stigur ever thought much of him."

"The charges leveled against you are as follows: conspiracy against the crown, attempted murder in two cases and willful obstruction of the initial post-battle negotiations."

Fror pales ever so slightly. "Nonsense!" he shouts, then.

Another dwarf steps up to him, and inclines his head toward Stigur. "We would like to hear the charges in detail, and present evidence to counter them."

"That's Maldur," Fili whispers, "He's Fror's legal counsel. Ori, he's good!" His voice hitches, worried, and Bilbo finds his own fingers clench in the fabric of his coat.

Ori still does not look to worried. "Even if he was the best, he cannot get Fror out of this mess. And when it comes down to it, we only need one of the charges to stick in order to have Fror banished."

"Very well," Stigur agrees, "Let us begin."

What follows is a first, long-winded discussion of Fror's behaviour during the initial aftermath of the battle. Despite his nerves, Bilbo soon finds the words difficult to follow. Both sides twist and escape, and while Balin argues Fror's actions to have been willfully disruptive, Fror proclaims to have been concerned on the behalf of Erebor in general.

Neither side comes out of this as the winner, but once the arguments start to circle, Stigur moves on. The attempt on Balin's life comes next.

"The temporary removal of my most central advisor at a time when I found myself greatly weakened," Thorin accuses, "Would have worked well, to either sway myself or remove me. This, Lord Fror, matches quite well with the suggestions you, as you have claimed, presented on the behalf of the dwarves of Erebor."

Fror's advisor hesitates momentarily, and Fror uses the chance to climb to his feet. "And was I wrong in this?" he asks the hall dramatically, "I had arrived to find Erebor in shambles and its King weakened, perhaps even under a curse. Others - elves and men - were demanding a share of our treasure, due to a deal made with a third outside. Now, this may have been due to a misunderstanding, and his majesty has since proven to be a capable ruler, yet I have never acted in any interest other than that of the people of Erebor.

And I would never dream of poisoning Lord Balin."

"Lord Fror," Stigur interrupts sharply, "Nobody has specified the attempt was made by poison."

Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath. Does this -

But while Fror falters, Maldor surges forward. "Your honor, it is well known," he explains, "You may inquire with others, the fact that Lord Balin was poisoned may have been kept from the masses, but among the council it was known."

"It wasn't," Kili hisses fiercely. Bilbo bites his lip - the counsel, as far as he can recall, was aware of Balin's condition early on. Yet to hear Fror specify poison without a moment of hesitation makes him shudder.

"Furthermore, Lord Fror cannot have made an attempt on Lord Balin's life, as he spent the evening in question in presence of King Dain," Maldor closes.

"Your majesty," Stigur asks, "Do you confirm?"

"Aye," Dain nods.

"That doesn't prove anything," Fili mutters, "Of course he's not going to get his hands dirty himself. Too high and mighty for that."

"Regardless," Thorin speaks up, "My accusation remains in place. Lord Fror may not have poisoned Lord Balin himself, but may easily have paid others to act on his behalf."

"Lies!" Fror explodes, and up on his observer's seat, Bilbo flinches.

"It is, indeed, an unfounded accusation, your majesty," Maldor intercedes, "What proof do you have?"

Balin and Thorin exchange a glance, then Balin nods. Bilbo hears Ori whistle, "so they're brining them in early."

"The proof we have comes from two statements," Balin explains while they all wait, "When the second attempt was made on Master Baggins' life, we did manage to capture two of his captors alive. Both have shared their knowledge."

"Rabble," Fror seethes, "Those rats are not worth listening to! They have no idea of what they speak! They only seek to say what gains them freedom."

"Lord Fror," Stigur reprimands icily, "On this platform all dwarves are considered equal and their statements true until disproven. I ask you to behave yourself accordingly."

Fror huffs, but sinks back down in his seat. His face has grown red from anger and cold hatred lights his eyes, and a shudder runs down Bilbo's spine.

"Do you want to leave?" Kili asks, resting a hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

Bilbo shakes his head, though he knows he must look a fright. But he grinds his teeth and tells himself to see it through - at least see Fror brought low, because for all his machinations he deserves no less.

Then the door opens again, and Haugar and his remaining companion are lead out. Both have their hands chained, and while Haugar looks wild, his companion appears dispirited. Bilbo tenses, hands clenching as for a moment the memory of cold steel against his skin dances along his nerves.

Those terrifying moments he banished to the darkest recesses of his mind -

"Master Haugar, Master Lenner," Stigur announces the two captors, "You have been brought here to speak as witnesses in the attempted murder of Lord Balin and Master Baggins."

"Won't they be judged themselves?" Bilbo asks in a whisper.

Fili shakes his head. "Their trial is set for a later date."

"And if they behave well today, it may result in the judge going easy on them then," Ori adds, "It's fairly obvious, but it's always been done that way." 

A shiver runs down Bilbo's spine and he nods. Though he finds he can barely look at them. They may not be Fror, may not have been the one behind his suffering, but a part of his soul recoils at their sight. Recalls hard hands on his clothes, his hair, the feeling of cold stone against his skin.

"We would like to begin with the attempt on Lord Balin's life," Stigur suggests, "Would you share what you know?"

Haugar grins at the audience, but Lennar turns to the judge. "Your honor, neither of us were personally involved. I was aware that there had been talks to bring Erebor back on the right way, and that this may require removing certain persons."

"Do you know if Lord Fror was involved, or who carried out the attempt?" Stigur continues.

Lennar shifts his weight, the chains clinking against each other. "Not as such, your honor, but I did know the dwarf who was sent to poison the tea."

"Name him."

"Nester, son of Nertor, your honor, but he is dead. He died when the tent of the burglar caught fire - he had been sent to kill the halfling then, but it must have gone wrong."

Bilbo shudders violently. He's almost forgotten - no, when he closes his eyes he can still see the flames spreading. Only his memory is muted, dimmed form the injury he had suffered, that scar that still lines his back.

"Lies!" Fror shouts, "He's lying! There never was a Nester in my troops!"

"Of course, because he's been doing your dirty laundry for years," Haugar interrupts casually, managing to appear relaxed despite the chains he is wrapped in, "You'd not find paperwork on him anywhere, but ask around a bit, he did exist. And if you examined the body, you likely found two golden teeth - he had those."

"That dwarf is mad!" Fror exclaims, "Mad!"

Haugar shrugs. "Says the one frothing at the mouth."

Fror makes to reach for a sword that is not there, and the hall hisses in response. The dwarf looks beyond the point of sanity now, and his advisor seems to have shrunk into himself.

"We were talking about the attempt on Lord Balin," Stigur reclaims the conversation, "You say the same party was responsible as for the first attempt on Master Baggins' life."

"Aye," Haugar nods, "And since he went and got himself offed, we had to take over."

"Stop lying, you miserable filthy gutter rat!" Fror explodes. His fist hits the wood of the desk before him so hard it splinters, and the guards closest reach for their weapons.

Bilbo can barely breathe. His heart speeds up, cold sweat covers his back and he sits frozen on his seat. Fili and Ori are saying something, but it vanishes in the rush in his ears.

Below, ignorant of Bilbo's predicament, the discussion continues.

"But I'm not lying," Haugar replies with a shrug, "I heard your rousing little speech stating that traitors ought to get their punishment - everyone under your command heard that. Or that quaint little statement both you and Lord Kham gave concerning how important it is to uphold dwarven traditions - didn't Master Janvi write that for you? I'm afraid I'm not entirely clear on who's all been involved, and I fear not everyone had the same intentions."

He tilts his head and looks to Thorin. "I know there were plans to remove you, your majesty. Saying a mad ruler was not fit for Erebor. But I don't know, I think it's a good fit - a mad King for a mad mountain with a treasure that drove all to madness."

Haugar tilts his head back and laughs, the hall filled with horrified whispering, and Bilbo's vision starts spinning. Somebody exclaims something, Fror begins to shout again, struggling, and then Thorin raises, too, and Balin is on his feet. Fili jumps up as well, and Ori reaches out, resting a hand on Bilbo's arm, just long enough to draw him back for Haugar to turn toward their place.

And he shouldn't be able to see them.

But the dwarf grins. "What they all agreed on, however, was that the halfling had to go. They said it's a pity the mad King didn't finish the job himself - but I don't know. Maybe he still will."

There are hands on his upper arms, forcing him along. Wood under his fingernails, hard and unforgiving. He can't move, his shoulder aches, and all is darkness and utterly still air. No sound but his pounding heart and terrified breathing, and do they have forgotten him? Do they live, will they return, is this his punishment? Will he -

"Bilbo!"

Something hard smacks against his cheek. Bilbo blinks, his vision clearing to reveal Kili's terrified face. "Bilbo, don't-"

He blacks out.

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, cliffhanger. BUT the central plot points should be resolved. What's left is the emotional resolution, and I have the remaining chapters written out. Unless rl goes pear-shaped, they will be up before the year's out. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr?](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the trial. And another, maybe not-so-unexpected development.

Death.

Stigur’s hard sentence had caught even Thorin by surprise. He and Balin – and all others he had spoken to – had expected exile to be the fate of Fror. But Stigur had judged Fror as if he had carried out the assassination attempts himself, and ruled him guilty on all charges.

It had sent a shudder through the audience.

And Thorin had realized that even though as King under the Mountain he has the power to convert the judgement into one of exile; Stigur is setting an example. Neither riches nor noble blood may save those who conspire against the King and attempt murder.

Thorin enters his office and has taken off his crown before he even notices the two visitors. Standing before the crackling fire in the fireplace in Balin–still dressed in court robes –while Nori sprawls lazily on the couch.

“What is it?”Thorin asks, placing the heavy crown on the desk, and begins to unbutton his cloak. His eyes burn with exhaustion; he really only came here to drop of the crown and the cloak –but it seems his working hours are not over yet.

Balin sighs, while Nori glances up.

“Did you know Bilbo came to watch?” Balin asks.

Thorin’s heart clenches. He shouldn’t have had to see this. They had arranged everything so that Bilbo never needed to see any of those dwarves again.

“Is he well?” he asks hoarsely.

Balin purses his lips. “He did not hear the judgement – Ori let me know he passed out around the time Fror incriminated himself. Fili and Kili took him to Oin immediately after.”

Thorin swallows and nods. It’s late, but perhaps not too late for a visit? Worry makes him shift his feet, but before he can turn back to the door, Nori clears his throat.

“What do we do now?”he asks, “Fror has been sentenced, Haugar and Lennar will follow soon, but what about the rest of them?”

“How many are there?”Thorin inquires in return. To think that once he believed slaying the dragon was all it took to reclaim Erebor.

Nori rolls into a sitting position. “That depends on from where the wind blows,”he replies, “With the ministers appointed, people are with you –which is why we got Fror in the end. But some are unhappy, and the moment the situation changes they’ll start up again.”

And it will never end, Thorin thinks to himself.

“Could we get them?”Balin asks quietly, looking as old as Thorin feels. “Even if we are in the better position, could we get an actual legal case against anybody possibly involved with Fror?”

"That Stigur’s on our side right now. He may be inclined to rule according to Thorin's wishes," Nori suggests.

"That would set a terrible example," Thorin interrupts sharply. He knows his grandfather's court ran on these obligations. That all ministers abided to the King's will. But if during his long years of exile he has learned one thing, then it is that under a skilled ruler a land may prosper. Under well-chosen and enforced laws, the kingdom may endure after the King's death.

And installing a transparent, just governing apparatus is the least he can do for Fili who one day will inherit the crown with all its burdens.

Nori does not seem all that intimidated. "The conspirators will start whispering again at some point. That's only a matter of time."

"Though right now they are too weakened to do anything, are they not?" Thorin asks, his stomach clenching at the thought of future assassination attempts.

"They are, unless somebody grows desperate. But I believe with Fror and Haugar dead it is unlikely anything will be attempted now," Nori shrugs, "But at one point, they'll strike again, and it's likely Bilbo will be a target."

Thorin flinches. Nori's words hit him like a thunderclap, even though they should not come as a surprise. From the slump of Balin's shoulders, his oldest advisor has already realized this - has understood that Erebor for Bilbo can never be a peaceful, safe home like his Shire.

Cannot ever be his home.

And Thorin's tortured heart begins to crack again.

"Either I chase down the conspirators on made-up charges and risk Erebor," Thorin summarizes and makes no attempt to keep the grief from his voice, "Or I allow them to remain at large, knowing that I may be risking Bilbo's life."

Nori nods, his eyes hard. "While it's unlikely Erebor will ever be completely safe for our esteemed burglar, removing the conspirators now would set an example."

"Which would result in only the fanatical and very dedicated remaining," Balin cautions with a sigh, "Much as I would like to say differently, events have proven that we cannot quite guarantee Bilbo's safety. Maybe in the future once Erebor has settled and stabilized, though even then all it would take would be one arrow."

Or one push. A fall at the wrong time, a terrible accident. There is a darker history to Erebor that Thorin is well aware of, one of intrigue, conspiracy and assassination. As long as he wears the crown (and maybe not even that, maybe just being Thorin, son of Thrain is curse enough) his immediate friends and family will not be safe. And while he worries for them, he trusts their skills and their familiarity with their fellow dwarves to accurately judge a situation.

Bilbo has only been close to dwarves for less than a year. He is strong, but any assassin, anybody looking to threaten the King under the Mountain would aim for him.

"Would you have me send him away?" Thorin asks.

Nori stiffens, and Balin's shoulders slump. "I don't want to," Balin says gently, "He should be staying and celebrating with us. But you see what the mountain's done to him. I spoke with Oin earlier, and he said the mountain probably wasn't helping things. His home back in the Shire was rather light and airy, and you remember all the green.

There is a chance hobbits aren't meant for mountains, laddie."

Thorin swallows. He senses the logic, though his heart cries out in protest.

"The Shire isn't safe either," Nori cautions, "We cannot protect him there."

Balin shakes his head. "We can't, but we shouldn't have to. The Shire is still very, very far away, and I doubt Lord Fror would have made the effort to have dwarves travel all the way there to threaten Thorin. Bilbo will be saver there than in Erebor."

And he might heal.

While Thorin would like to proclaim Bilbo improved - at least from the ghost he carried from that buried chest, the body that felt barely alive, and the not-quite-there look Bilbo had been sporting then - he cannot deny that their hobbit is too pale, his eyes still so haunted from horrors that have cut too deep. And it will break Thorin's heart, especially when they have just begun to untangle the emotions between them.

But Bilbo deserves to recover.

That is more important than Thorin's feelings.

***

A shadow hangs over the mountain in the days that follow. Bilbo is relegated to strict bed rest - Oin once again prohibiting visitors until the hobbit has recovered. Though, as Oin has confessed to their companions, he is not certain if he will. The mountain with all its horrible memories is hardly a place of joy for their erstwhile burglar.

On the second day, a crowd gathers on Ravenhill for Fror's execution. Balin, overlooking the solemn faces, is glad not to see Bilbo among them. Had he been well, it is likely their burglar would have come from a sense of duty. Though - like the trial - it would have likely done him ill.

Thorin, too, watches in silence. Beneath the splendor of his clothes and his proud posture, he looks pale and tired. Running the kingdom has taken its toll, but more than that the realization that this will not bring the closure they hoped gnaws on them.

As Fror's head rolls, shaved of any hair he ever had, Balin closes his eyes for a moment. A proud announcement is made, proclaiming punishment to have been enacted and things to have returned to their fair, normal state. Some dwarves cheer, but none of their company. Fror may have been the head of the conspiracy, yet not the only one harboring such thoughts.

Erebor's gold has already inspired greed and desire, and Balin has no illusion it will not continue to do so in the future. That is its price.

And once again Balin wonders, if it's truly worth it.

***

When Thorin reaches Bilbo's chambers, he takes a deep breath before knocking. Oin had been hesitant to declare Bilbo well enough for visitors, but had relented in the end. The hobbit that opens the door to him is noticeably pale and thin, and he should not be either of these things. Thorin wishes he could just brush away the shadows underneath his eyes.

Bilbo's lips quirk. "You spoke to Oin?" he guesses as he allows Thorin to enter. A fire crackles merrily and warms the room, which - for all its carpets and rich furniture remains unlike the hobbit home Thorin remembers.

"Yes," he replies to Bilbo's questions, "He -"

"He suggested I leave," Bilbo completes the sentence and gestures for Thorin to sit, and then sinks down next to him, their elbows brushing.

Thorin looks to him, but Bilbo stares into the fire.

"What do you think?" Thorin inquires evenly. For all that his heart wishes for Bilbo to find a home here, at his side, he wishes for Bilbo’s happiness at the same time. He fears they are mutually exclusive.

Bilbo sighs. "Had he told me two or three weeks ago, I would have left on the next morning." But then Bilbo had been in no condition to leave and making him responsible for the Arkenstone had ultimately forced him to stay.

"And now?" Thorin asks.

"I do not know," Bilbo shrugs. "You saw me after your coronation; you hear what happened at the trial. I'm obviously not cut out for this. I wish it was different, but I’m not."

A part of Thorin wants to protest; Bilbo faced down orcs, a dragon and those conspiring advisors and Lords. That he walked away from this suggests extraordinary hardiness.

“No, you’re…” Thorin begins, but finds his tongue tied. Will he ask Bilbo to stay, despite knowing that staying here will confront Bilbo with another string of violence, nightmares and possible murder attempts?

A small hand comes to rest atop of his own and Thorin turns to find Bilbo looking at him. "It is reasonable for me to leave," Bilbo tells him, "Oin says the Shire will help me heal, or at least distance myself from... well, what happened."

Thorin turns his hand and intwines his fingers with Bilbo's in return. "Oin knows what he speaks of. If it is what is best to for you..."

His heart clenches, and he finds his emotions mirrored on Bilbo's face. Without thinking he reaches out, trailing a hand over the healing skin of Bilbo's cheek and the hobbit nuzzles against it.

"I don't know if I want to go, Thorin," Bilbo confesses quietly, "Now that I can and should, I don't know if I want to anymore."

Thorin shifts his hand and pulls Bilbo's body against his own. Burying his face in the mop of unruly hair, he takes a deep breath. "What would you do if you returned to the Shire?" he asks.

Bilbo takes a moment. "Go to the market, I suppose. If there was anything left in my pantry, it will have long gone bad now. They might even have strawberries when I get back..."

"And on the market you will speak to your neighbors and friends, and then go and eat with them. Sit on your front porch and smoke, watch the world go by? Go back to your books, your armchair and your garden?" Thorin suggests, recalling the rolling hills, the rich green and the sheer endless blue sky. They are like memories from another lifetime; distant and unreachable from Erebor. The Shire feels like a place of carefree existence that Erebor could never offer.

"My family more likely and those that are curious," Bilbo replies with a chuckle, "But it'd be nice having a garden again. I might still be able to salvage my potatoes. Or finish that book I started before you came."

Thorin feels the corners of Bilbo's mouth twitch upwards. He wishes he could offer all these things here. But Erebor is not the Shire, and some things even all the gold in the world cannot change.

"That does sound lovely," Thorin returns gently, "And I am sure you will find peace there." Maybe even happiness, Thorin thinks.

Bilbo stiffens in his arms and draws back a little to tilt his head up. "So you think I should go?"

Thorin sighs. He doesn't want Bilbo to go, but having watched Fror's head roll, and knowing Haugar's and Lennar's trials are not far off, another thought has begun to gnaw on his mind.

"I had once wished this mountain could become a home for you," he says, a sad smile playing on his lips as he studies the lines on his beloved's face - trying to commit them to memory, "But after all that has happened, I know many places in Erebor hold no good memories for you."

Bilbo's forehead ceases. "And yet you saw most of the place wrecked by Smaug and claim no such terrors."

Thorin stiffens. "That was a long time ago. The beast is dead, and will no longer haunt me." Except for nightmares, yet they stopped featuring Smaug a while before.

"I could be the same," Bilbo declares, “Give me time, and I will have made new memories. All these – these bad things will be long behind us.”

"Aye," Thorin admits, "You could." But it would not do you well, he adds in his mind. How many setbacks would staying in Erebor incur? And at which point would it truly be too much? Aloud he says: "Yet your memories are more recent, and while I saw those that caused me harm fall, the same is not true for you."

Bilbo blinks. "Fror's dead!"

"And yet we did not go after all his fellow conspirators," Thorin replies, "And most of all, you will never know justice for what I did to you."

At the reminder, Bilbo pales instantly. The wooden chest - long since destroyed - holds terrible memories for both of them, and will forever twist and snag whatever connection they have.

"It needn't ..." Bilbo declares shakily, "I mean, I know you weren't yourself, and I ... I ... Maybe I can't forgive what you did, but I understand that it wasn't you, and that you do what you can and more. Thorin, please, I would never wish for you to be judged the way Fror was! He did what he did in cold blood, while you didn't even remember to sleep!"

Bilbo looks at Thorin with wide, pleading eyes, and the King feels his heart clench. Thorin swallows. "I ... I know," he admits, though it is still difficult to grasp. His madness should not absolve him from responsibility for his actions, yet they have long since come to the conclusion that there is no way to reach a fair judgement in this.

"But I wish there was something I could do to see you well again."

A shadow crosses Bilbo's eyes. "You believe returning to the Shire will help."

"Yes," Thorin says.

Taking back his home cost Bilbo's health. Now the price for Bilbo's health will be Thorin's heart. It's not fair, but it is a deal Thorin can live with.

Bilbo looks back to the fire. “I will think about it.”

***

And though Bilbo maintains he is undecided for a while longer, Thorin’s heart has realized what the result will be. It is for the best, he tells himself, the best for Bilbo.

As Oin says, the Shire will give Bilbo the peace and quietude he requires to heal. There are too many memories haunting him in the mountain, Balin adds, while Nori points to the dangers ahead. Dwalin merely grips his axes tighter, and Kili turns to Thorin with wide eyes.

“Is it true?” he asks, “Bilbo cannot stay?”

Thorin looks away and nods.

Kili grows angry. “After everything he’s done for us, we’re sending him away?” he demands to know, “As if his deeds mean nothing? Are we back to this, uncle?”

“No,” Thorin replies with a sad sigh, gestures for the courtiers to leave and beckons his upset nephew closer, “I would either send him out with the highest honors I can bestow, or offer him a place here forever.”

Kili bristles. “Then why –“

“We talked about this,” Fili adds, joining into their quiet conversation, “Kili, you know it’s what is best for Bilbo.”

“It’s what Oin thinks is best for Bilbo,” Kili corrects, “What if Oin is wrong? Have you consulted any other healers?”

They have not, Thorin thinks, but he doubts any of them would offer different counsel.

“It is not a matter of tonics and teas,” Thorin begins solemnly, “If it was, I would have long sent for the proper mixtures. It is a thing of the mind – there are many memories Bilbo connects with this mountain, but few of them are good. The dragon, the conspiracy, my own madness – and while he may be capable of overwriting some and moving on, another may just lie poised to overwhelm him. You must have seen that at the trial.”

“Aye,” Fili nods, paling.

Kili frowns, lips curled in protest. “He was getting better.”

“Perhaps,” Thorin inclines his head, and maybe he should be grateful Kili has never seen the darkness that lies at the end of the spirals of nightmares and bad memories. “But how many times can he recover from a shock like that? How many times until it becomes too much?”

That still, pale body they pulled from the chest. Fili and Kili never saw, but it haunts the darkest recesses of Thorin’s mind. Then he had thought Bilbo lost to them; too far gone. That the hobbit had rallied, even now, is close to a miracle.

One Thorin doubts they would be granted a second time.

“Understand, Kili,” Thorin says softly, “You know, if we asked, Bilbo would stay. And that’s why we cannot ask him. He has sacrificed so much for us, I would not have him stay if he is likely to fare better in his own home. I would rather know him safe and happy.”

Than have him with them and in danger.

Kili huffs. “But if he wanted to stay?”

“He would be most welcome,” Thorin says with a sad smile.

***

And then time flies. Thorin finds himself busy with his kingdom, Bilbo with preparations. Bofur and Bifur offer to accompany him, and then promptly chose a honor guard as well. Dori fusses over his clothes, because really, traveling in winter is unbecoming.

Letters are sent to Mirkwood and Rivendell and Beorn in advance, and then suddenly one morning Bilno finds himself climbing unto a pony, wrapped in thick furs, the warmth of Thorin's embrace still in his bones. The taste of a last kiss still lingering on his lips.

He will miss Thorin.

Miss the closeness they shared, the hours spent quietly together. Had their adventure taken another turn, had things played out differently, it is likely Bilbo would now not be parting. In another lifetime, Bilbo thinks as he glances up to where Thorin stands, proud as the King he should be, they would have stayed side by side forever.

And yet, had things changed they may never have reclaimed Erebor. They might have died on the road; Bilbo might have stayed in his home.

So while his heart aches, Bilbo tells himself that this is a fine ending. The kingdom reclaimed, the King crowned and all signs pointing to a glorious future. What do the feelings of the King and one small hobbit matter in those grander narratives?

He will go home, and perhaps one day learn to sleep without nightmares, and Thorin will rule and Erebor prosper.

This is enough.

A cold wind plays with Bilbo's hair and he turns to look west, where clouds race over a blue sky, casting moving shadows on the ground. Enough, he tells himself, and tilts his face toward the sun.

It's a good day to travel.

It's a good way to end their story.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's almost it. I suppose you can guess what comes in the chapter ahead - but if there are any questions you'd like to have answered, any other things to talk about - find me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shire hasn't changed, Bilbo finds. But perhaps he has. Maybe he could recover in the Shire - but can he learn to be happy again?

The Shire has not changed. From the moment Bilbo rides along the familiar path to his smial, nodding at the staring neighbors, to his first visit back to the market to another, weeks later - all has stayed the same.

Certainly, Lobelia is sporting lovely new frown lines from having been evicted from Bag End by a strange alliance of Bofur and his escort representing the kingdom of Erebor and the Thain intervening personally on Bilbo's behalf. (Stopping by in Tookborough on the way to Hobbiton may have been the right thing to do, but it had also allowed all of his Took relatives and especially his grandmother to see how thin and travel worn he had become. At least he had been able to stop his grandmother from going after Bofur with her trusty fish knife.)

Bilbo's adventure and changed appearance provide the main fuel for local gossip for weeks. The visiting dwarves cheerfully add even more exaggerated spins to the tale, while Bilbo refuses to speak on these events.

***

Erebor grows incredibly busy.

News of the mountain’s reclamation has spread, and traders from the east and south arrive even before the caravans do. With both Dale and Erebor both being restored, the result is a shortage of labor that drives prices up and gives Bard grey hair.

And yet, when Thorin wanders back into the treasury with Oin, he finds the expenses so far have barely left a dent. (He also finds the gold makes him nauseous. He can still make out the corner where they dug the chest out, even though everything has been rearranged.)

“It’s a good foundation,” Gloin says, addressing Thorin’s concerns regarding the rising commodity prices, “Most of the arrivals have nothing but the clothes on their back. If they can earn some wealth, it’ll get them to settle better.”

Thorin nods. He has Nori and his trusty band of informants keeping a close eye on their shadier arrivals. He’ll not allow another conspiracy to rise and hurt those close to him. But as the weather grows warmer and optimism rises among the populations, there is not much to fear.

He’s well-liked, Balin reassures him, they all are. The children of Dale like to rehash the company’s quest in their games, and Thorin knows that the weavers are preparing tapestries to celebrate the anniversary of Erebor’s reclamation.

Thorin’s doesn’t truly look forward to it.

“Durin’s Day makes it more symbolic,” Ori had argued, “It’ll be easier to commemorate.”

“Also it’s when we first entered the mountain,” Balin had added, and Thorin had eventually agreed. He still shivers when he remembers sliding his hand over the familiar stones after the door had first opened. Recalled the reverent silence of the dark, long-abandoned corridors.

He does not like to remember what came after.

“Bilbo should be there,” Kili had said, his chair tilted back. In the privacy of their company, no one will reprimand him for that any longer – he plays his role as Prince of Erebor far better than any of them expected, and with a degree of charm that has already won over some of their stiffer visitors.

“Did we get another letter?” Fili inquires. He understands why Thorin won’t ask – though Thorin doesn’t know if Fili agrees. And he’s glad to know his nephew has his own head, will be capable of making his own decisions once the crown is his – will perhaps be a better ruler than Thorin.

“No, we didn’t receive any other letters yet,” Thorin replies, thinking of the folded parchment lying on his desk. He likes to reread Bilbo’s letters at night. While the first missive that reached them – back when Bilbo, Bofur and Bifur were still on the road – was rather short, though did figure a long complaint about sleeping on rocks, they have grown longer since.

In the following letters, Bilbo paints beautiful pictures of life in the Shire. Reading through his descriptions of his garden, Thorin can see it – close his eyes, and imagine himself in that peaceful world of strawberry tarts, apple pies, hearty ales and pipe weed. It gladdens him to read that Bilbo does so well; he chuckles at the antics of Bilbo’s neighbor, the gossip about hobbits Thorin doesn’t know –

And has to rub the burn from his eyes, because he knows Bilbo is happy, and letting him leave was the right decision. His hobbit is happy in his home and will not return to Erebor.

***

The children manage to draw Bilbo out of his shell eventually. He finds himself speaking of trolls and mountains and goblins and a dragon, not minding that sometimes the parents listen to him just as engrossed as their offspring. But he does not speak of the battle. Of Thorin's sickness, his betrayal and anything that happens after. If anybody asks, Bilbo looks away.

"Oh, you know," he will say, "Once the dragon was dead and the mountain reclaimed, I went home."

At least Bofur never calls him on this.

Though he addresses Bilbo's continuing nightmares. Even months after his return to the Shire, Bilbo barely has put on any weight, and prefers to visit the market in the early, less busy, morning hours. He is nearly a recluse by the time Bofur and his escort make ready to leave in late summer.

"Make sure you eat right," Bofur tells him that morning when the eastern sky is already light but the sun yet rests underneath the horizon, "Go to that party - if like to go if I could. But we need to go on to the Blue Mountains."

He reaches out and claps Bilbo's shoulder, and perhaps it is a sign of healing that Bilbo does not flinch. Instead, his - still haunted - eyes gaze at the saddled ponies mulling on the way before Bag End.

"Well, I'll drop by before returning to Erebor in spring and see how you're doing."

And with that Bilbo is finally restored to his former life. The Shire goes its way - gossip turns to other things, and only Bilbo's gold draws attention one time or another.

He tries to fit in. Remembers Oin's advice - to try and return to himself. But even adopting all his old routines now feel like playing a role Bilbo no longer fits into. The routine bores him, his appetite waxes and wanes and sometimes he stares east. Thinks of Erebor and wonders how his friends are doing now.

Summer has almost passed, the anniversary of Durin’s Day approaches. Caravans must have reached Erebor. Has the mountain stabilized? How is Dale? How is Thorin?

The touch of Thorin's lips is seared into his skin. And the one time Bilbo accepts an invitation for something more than tea, he finds his interest waning half-way through. Thorin's ghost overshadows the hobbit before him, and when alone later, Bilbo buries his face in his pillow and cries.

How can he ever return to the person he was, when his memories overshadow all? How can he take up that old life when he no longer fits into it?

How can he remain here, when all he does is play a role he does not enjoy and wonder what is happening half a world away?

***

“It’s quite something,” Gloin remarks with a whistle, the large tapestry Dain sent as a gift. As the first anniversary of Erebor’s reclamation draws near, the mountain grows impossibly busier. Gifts arrive from near and far, dwarves anticipate a grand feast, and the company and the ministers are utterly swamped with trying to organize said grand feast.

Twice a day ships with stocks for the kitchens reach Dale, and Bombur has taken to complaining that he’s so busy with making sure everything and everyone is in the right place at the right time he doesn’t get to cook anymore.

Ori nods. “Impressive,” he comments as he studies the tapestry attentively. Not the golden thread and intricate stich work hold his attention, but the tale that is rendered in gemstones and precious fabrics: from the sacking of Erebor to Thorin’s noble quest. Everybody looks suitably heroic – not like wet, bedraggled figures they cut when stumbling from Thranduil’s dungeon or after their encounter with the trolls.

The weavers adhered, Ori notices with growing satisfaction, to the narrative he spun nearly one year ago: Bilbo features thrice. Once as he protects Thorin from Azog, once as he takes the dwarves’ Arkenstone from Smaug, and once as he gives the Arkenstone to Thorin. The tapestry, as do most of today’s versions of events, omits the betrayal and Thorin’s reaction.

And that’s for the best, Ori nods to himself. As more caravans reach Erebor, they all learn this tale and spread it to their homes. Soon the darkest chapters of Erebor’s reclamation will be forgotten from history. And once nobody lives who remembers, these things will never have happened.

“You’re not really on there, are you,” Gloin comments and draws Ori from his thoughts.

He’s right – Ori features as a smaller figure writing down the quest on the lower end of the tapestry, as well as facing off against an orc in the segment on the battle.

“That’s quite alright,” Ori says with a shrug.

Gloin frowns. “But you did quite a lot. Especially after, when we had to sort out the mess with all those rumors and the conspiracy.”

Ori turns to Gloin with a smile. “Actually, it might be better if that’s not recorded,” he explains, “People like to think history is written by events, not by people.”

***

Bilbo blows a smoke ring toward the autumn sunset.

A brisk wind ruffles the colorful leaves still clinging to the trees, and plays with Bilbo’s hair. It’s growing cold – is it snowing in Erebor yet? He’s growing fuzzy with the dates – would have missed his own birthday if Lobelia hadn’t inadvertently reminded him.

The presents have helped him return into Hobbiton’s good graces.

Bilbo flexes his cold fingers around the pipe. They’ve grown numb a while ago, but he doesn’t mind. He rarely minds these physical discomforts anymore; not when he has known so much worse. A year to the day – and that was an anniversary he wanted to forget but found he cannot – when Thorin’s madness drove him past the point of no return and he dragged Bilbo deep into Erebor’s treasury and forced him into a too-small chest.

He shudders, takes a long, deep breath.

Somewhere between Ori twisting the tale, the many rumors and Bilbo’s own desire to forget his memories have blurred. But the horror is seared into his soul; the cracks on the inside of the boxes’ lid printed against his fingers.

Bilbo casts a long look out at the picturesque scenery of Hobbiton. The sun has disappeared; the first lights are coming on. It’s quiet and peaceful – and still the memories keep haunting him. He feels frozen here; stuck within a timeless space.

Beautiful, certainly, but all that helps him here is time further distorting his memories.

And he doesn’t want to forget the good parts.

He doesn’t want to forget the only part of his life when he actually felt alive.

Bilbo closes his eyes. So far from Erebor, the notion seems all the more ridiculous. But he still remembers feeling Thorin’s lips against his own; the King under the Mountain as good as confessed to feel the same.

Now a cold gust of wind tears the warm puff of smoke from his lips.

He misses Erebor. Despite the terrible things he experienced under the mountain, he misses the place with its dizzying walkways and imposing architecture.

He cannot, he thinks, stay in the Shire. It is peaceful, beautiful, and will forever remain a home to him. But Bilbo has changed too much.

And maybe he is not fit for Erebor either. Maybe he will not make the journey twice. But the thought of leaving behind the petty squabbles, the suffocating routine, it makes him breathe easier. A weight taken off his chest and it's as if he has finally found an answer.

Perhaps it's not a good idea. Oin, Thorin, they all hoped he would heal here.

But gazing down at a group of hobbits cheerfully putting up the tents for the summer's celebration in a few days, he feels estranged from them. There is no way he can go back to being a simple hobbit; no way he can heal from this kind of change.

He will return to Erebor. And either he will make it, or he won't, but at least he will cease this kind of not-living.

A small smile tugs on his lips. It’s grimmer than the Sunday smile he wears for his guests. But it feels better – it feels more like himself.

***

“We got another letter from Bofur,” Balin announces as he wanders into Thorin’s office early in the morning, “And one from your sister.”

“Anything from Bilbo?” Fili inquires, and hastily covers a yawn.

“Already got in yesterday,” Balin announces with a chuckle and nods toward Thorin.

The King under the Mountain doesn’t look up from the document he has been studying since Balin stepped in, but a soft smile tugs on the corners of his mouth. “Quite a long one. He’s been writing on the Shire’s winter festivals and gave quite a lovely description.”

“It’s good to hear he’s doing well there,” Balin comments. Fili throws him a questioning glance, while Thorin leans back and folds up the parchment. His eyes are lined by shadows as they always are these days.

“Yes, it is,” he agrees, “Please excuse me. I’ll read the letters later – Stigur wanted to confer with me on a trickier case regarding the lower mithril veins.”

“Of course,” Balin concurs, and Thorin nods as he gathers his papers and makes to leave the room. “Thank you, I’ll see you both during open court.”

The moment the door shuts behind Thorin, Balin and Fili glance at each other.

“He’s not doing well,” Fili says.

Balin sighs heavily. “He’s doing as well as he can.”

“We should do something,” Fili suggests and begins pacing, “Anything! I don’t know. Maybe he’ll cheer up once mother arrives. She might come earlier if we wrote…”

“Maybe,” Balin agrees easily, 

***

Bilbo does not write of his change of plans to Erebor. He’s not even certain Bofur will agree to take him back, and the dwarf’s concern on his behalf his heart-warming. And maybe he’s right, maybe Bilbo is making the wrong decision. His nightmares have grown fewer in the Shire, he has regained some of his lost weight, and working in his garden has allowed him to settle.

But all the while there has been something missing. The Shire may be his home, but he feels like an intruder. Gossiping in the market leaves him wary, the small-mindedness of hobbits fatigued. Life in the Shire has grown boring in the way it never used to be before Gandalf forced him on that adventure.

Maybe Bilbo should be angry at him for it.

He isn’t.

He misses mountains, misses the distant lands to the east, misses his friends. Most of all, he misses Thorin.

For all that the dwarf caused Bilbo’s lingering nightmares, there is no one in the entirety of the Shire Bilbo relates to. It has grown lonely in his home, and ghosts and happy memories are no longer enough, when he knows that half a world away breathing friends await.

And maybe going back will ruin what little health he regained. Mayhaps it will even drive him into an early grave.

But that will be better than lingering here in long-lasting limbo.

So with a long-missed tingling in his blood, Bilbo visits the Thain and his relatives over the winter festivities. Settles his estate, shares a bit of his treasure and a few, well-chosen details of his journey as he sits before a flickering fire with his younger relatives while the snow falls down outside. And is touched by the concern he receives.

Will he be alright there, his grandfather wonders. Will the dwarves take good care of him? Will he write, let them know he is doing fine, and maybe visit if he ever gets the chance?

Bilbo can’t quite help himself, and he hugs the old hobbit, pressing his eyes shut to stop the tears from escaping. His grandfather is old. Once Bilbo leaves, it is unlikely he will see him again.

They will miss him, his grandmother assures him as she joins the impromptu hug, miss him dearly, and he will always be welcome to their home. But if his heart tells him to go east, if this is where his happiness lies, then he is to go with all their good wishes.

“But what if I’m not sure?” Bilbo mumbles before he can stop himself. The doubts that have rested on his heart for so long bursting forth, “What if things go ill? What if I’m no longer welcome?”

“Bilbo,” his grandmother says, running a hand through his hair, “What does your heart tell you? Do you want to go?”

His throat has closed up, so Bilbo nods. Yes, he wants to go, yes. Even if he doesn’t know what awaits him, doesn’t know how it will turn out.

“Then go,” she tells him confidently, “You can always come back.”

And Bilbo wonders what he did to deserve such a wonderful family. He will miss them in Erebor. But his grandmother is right – his heart wants to go.

***

Bofur arrives in early spring, when the first primroses have begun to bloom and bright green leaves cover the trees and bushes. Bag End’s garden is turning into a riot of colors, and most of Hobbiton is busy on their fields.

Bilbo waves at the arriving dwarves from where he kneels below the grand tree atop Bag End, a smile growing on his face. He stands, wipes the dirt from his hands and returns Bofur’s hug without any care for what the neighbors may think.

Bofur grasps him by the shoulders and studies him for a moment.

“You look better,” he says with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, “I’m glad.” He knocks their foreheads together – gently – before releasing Bilbo into Bifur’s embrace.

“So, how was the winter without us?” Bofur inquires, “Probably did you good to have a break from all us troublesome dwarves.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to reply – because no, not Hobbiton is what helped him recover, but the decision he made for himself. Instead he shakes his head, and beckons the dwarves to follow him. “Come in, come in.”

Bag End’s green door opens without a noise, but the wooden floor creaks softly under heavy dwarven boots. Bilbo thinks he’ll miss the feel of those familiar wooden boards under his feet. Now that time has come, a note of wistfulness mixes once more with the joyful anticipation running through his veins.

“Huh, you tied up a bit,” Bofur comments, looking around. Many of the knickknacks that lined the shelves have gone – given away as presents or packed up for storage. “Bilbo, are you –“

Bilbo steps out of the kitchen and sees Bofur staring at his packed rucksack. The bedroll and oil coat on top of it; a bundle with his dearest possession to the side.

He smiles, holding out a mug of ale to Bofur. “I’m coming with you,” he announces, and likes how confident he sounds. Packing up has turned the decision bittersweet – so many mementos he has to leave behind, and so many beautiful memories of his childhood that will forever tie him to the Shire.

“Oh, that is, is, are you certain?” Bofur bursts out, forgetting about the ale Bilbo is holding out.

“Yes, quite,” Bilbo returns lightly.

“But, is that, will you, will that be alright?”

Bilbo shrugs and looks to the window. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly, “The Shire – it’s beautiful, and in some way it will always be home – but I miss mountains. I miss my friends.”

Bofur begins to smile, tentative and uncertain, but his eyes sparkle with happiness and Bilbo’s own heart trills in response.

“Do you think I could come along with you?” he asks.

Bofur nods. “Nothing I’d rather do. But first, I need ale. You just scared years off me, years!”

***

When the letters stop arriving, Thorin figures Bilbo must have settled into his old life. It is likely for the best – fewer reminders of that ugly period he spent in the east, the better.

Thorin hopes he does well. Wishes him all the luck in the world and then some.

He’ll try what he can to make sure those dear to him are happy.

***

And then, one day, the forest parts.

Their little group emerges from Mirkwood on the road leading up toward Dale, leaving the glittering waters of the Long Lake with its busy harbor and colorful trading boats to its right and then traversing the last remaining meters to the Lonely Mountain. Even in the heat of late summer, snow covers the mountain’s upper slopes, shining brilliantly under a cloudless sky.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, as something in his chest snaps into place.

Whatever lies ahead, he thinks, loosening his grip on his pony’s reins, it will be better than what he left behind. Be it difficult or dramatic, Erebor will be his home now, as the Shire cannot be it anymore.

“Having second thoughts?” Bofur asks over his shoulder.

Bilbo shakes his head. “Just marveling at the landscape.”

“We never had a chance to appreciate it last time,” Bofur agrees with a snort, “But at least you got to know the landmarks.”

“Do you think we’ll make it all the way to Erebor today?” Bilbo asks. Nobody has yet commented on the fact that they’re riding a little faster than they used to. But those dwarves haven’t seen Erebor just as long as Bilbo and they likely miss their home, too.

Bofur frowns. “We could, but I think Bard would probably like to see you, too.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “I’ll see him another day. He’ll understand.”

The sun rises higher and despite being much farther north, Bilbo finds himself raising his hood to protect his head. He’d rather not spend his first night back in Erebor with a headache or downed from heat exhaustion, thank you very much. Bifur nods at him cheerfully, spurring his pony to a fast trot, and the rest of the company follows suit.

They’ve been hailed at the harbor, and likely a messenger has been sent to inform Bard, but they’ve almost reached Dale and so far no one has arrived to greet them. In a unanimous decision lunch was bypassed.

“There’ll be a feast tonight,” Bofur promises with a smile.

Bifur nods, and Bilbo turns to them. “They know we’re coming?”

“They should know Bifur and I will be back today,” Bofur explains, “I sent a raven ahead when we left Mirkwood. But they don’t know about you. That’ll be quite the surprise.”

***

By the time the group reaches Erebor, the sun is setting. The golden decorations of Erebor’s grand gate shine brightly among the lengthened shadows, and on the green marble steps Erebor’s king and his counselors await the returning group.

Thorin’s crown shines like molten gold as the western sky turns into shades of fire: orange and red, while overhead soft pinks and violets dominate and over the eastern plains behind Erebor’s the first stars already shine. Warmth lingers in the air, though a cool wind from the east promises relief, and ruffles the furs of Thorin’s royal coat.

Fili and Kili wear lighter garb embedded with sparkling jewels, and they stand still and silent as befitting of their position. But they, as Thorin himself, burn to hear the news from Bofur and Bifur. Welcome the missing members of their company back home. And then they’ll be complete.

As complete as they ever can be.

Thorin hides a small sigh, as he watches the group dismount and gather themselves. He is glad to see them all unharmed, down to the latest guard and pony. The light makes it difficult to make out their individual features; dressed in traveling garb they are but dwarf-shaped silhouettes against the setting sun.

“I think that’s Bifur,” Kili whispers to Fili, earning himself a shush from Balin.

“No, look, there they come,” Fili returns, undaunted, and everybody seems to shift.

But instead of two, three figures detach themselves from the group that returned. Thorin squints – he thinks he recognizes Bifur; the tallest. Bofur isn’t much smaller – but the third figure is.

They come closer, and somebody sucks in a sharp breath. Bifur bows and Bofur pushes back the hood of cloak and follows.

“We have returned,” he announces loudly, and the other two echo him. There’s a familiar note in there; something that makes Thorin’s mind halt.

And when they rise the third figure brushes their hood back as well.

“Is that…” somebody breathes, but Thorin’s mind has gone utterly blank.

The hood slips back to reveal blond curls that shine golden in the evening sun. Pale skin has turned darker from sunlight and travel, and the figure underneath the light travel cloak looks firm and well-rounded. Healthy.

Thorin sucks in a shaky breath.

Bilbo turns his head, catches sight of them. And smiles the most beautiful smile Thorin has ever seen.

“Bilbo!” Kili shouts, tearing down from the steps, and the dam bursts. Fili follows on his heel, hollering in excitement, and then Gloin, Bombur and Dori are running, too. Balin starts laughing, loud and carefree, while Dwalin chuckles and claps Thorin’s shoulder.

“He’s back,” he states, and Balin echoes him, shaking his head and laughing. “He did it, he really did it.”

Thorin’s heart begins to beat again. Shallowly, tentatively, with a flutter inspired by something he never dared to hope.

“Bilbo,” he whispers, and finds he’s the last one of his company still standing on the stairs. Everyone else is down there, embracing and laughing and crying and he’d never expected this, never hoped for Bilbo to come back.

Something in his chest trembles. As he steps down the stairs, his knees feel weak, and it’s as if he is walking onto sacred ground. Into a world of miracles, into a place where the wishes he never dared to even dream of have become real.

As if orchestrated by magic, his companions step aside, until at last Oin lets go of Bilbo and releases him to Thorin.

The hobbit’s eyes widen upon seeing him, but instead of fear his expression speaks only of joy, and he walks toward Thorin, too, until they stop an arm’s length from each other. Thorin takes a shaky breath, and then reaches out to gently grasp Bilbo’s shoulder – how long has it been? Did he not think he’d never touch or see Bilbo again? – and brings their foreheads together.

“You came back,” Thorin breathes reverently, as his forehead rests against Bilbo’s. His heart is caught in a spell, and he scarcely believes the soft skin he feels touching his own is real. Something hot and wet burns in his eyes, but he cannot close them. Blond curls flutter at the edges of his vision, and Bilbo withdraws, only to look at Thorin with a blinding smile.

“I missed the mountains,” he admits with his eyes shining as well, “I missed you. All of you.”

He meant Thorin. The King under the mountain sucks in a shuddering breath, as the ground under his feet disappears, though for the first time in his life not to drag him into a bottomless pit of misery, but to lift him up into unknown heights of joy and euphoria. 

***

Later, when they have feasted and told their tales and the sun has long since vanished behind the western horizon, Bilbo and Thorin find themselves on their own, back in Bilbo’s former chambers. He needs new rooms, Thorin contemplates, looking around.

Maybe closer to the outside. He could hire stonemasons to actually hew windows into the rock. Perhaps even a balcony. Bilbo should have daylight. A garden.

“There was one thing,” Bilbo says as he steps up to Thorin and draws him from his thoughts, “I wanted to do earlier.”

He stops right before Thorin, leaving barely more than a hand’s breadth between them. Thorin waits with baited breath, a part of his mind afraid of what might come.

Instead, Bilbo stands up on tiptoes and sneaks one hand behind Thorin’s head to tilt it down ever so slightly. Soft, chapped lips meet his own and whatever fears lingered in Thorin’s heart evaporate.

The kiss lasts barely a heartbeat. But when Bilbo leans back on his heels, the entire world has changed.

“I thought that might have been a bad idea before the entire kingdom,” Bilbo admits with a small, beatific smile, and Thorin can only smile in response.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he admits.

Bilbo’s eyes widen in honest surprise. “Truly?”

Thorin chuckles. His hand brushes over Bilbo’s curls, enjoying the lively texture and then glides down to the soft skin of Bilbo’s cheek, once again round and flushed.

“Yes,” he confirms, “I missed you.”

“Oh Thorin,” Bilbo murmurs, “I missed you, too.”

And who initiates the following kiss, none can quite say.

*** 

And in the end, it still might have not been the right decision. Bilbo’s nightmares never completely vanish. The harsher winters in the east stress his body – he falls sick for weeks, loses weight, pales. At those times Thorin sits at his bedside, frets.

Maybe he should send Bilbo back. Maybe asking him to stay, maybe deepening the emotional connection between them was wrong.

Maybe he should have acknowledged that he never had a right to Bilbo’s heart. Not after what he did; not after the guilt he still carries. Bilbo may have made peace with their past (or at least he says so; his nightmares make Thorin dubious), but Thorin grieves that his beloved hobbit will never know justice.

Maybe they are not good for each other.

Bilbo reminds Thorin of his gravest failings; of what he can never atone for. And had he stayed in the Shire, Bilbo might have fully recovered.

“Or I may have not,” Bilbo returns flatly, one evening when Thorin confesses his darkest thought, “Maybe the boredom there would’ve killed me years ago.”

He buries a hand in Thorin’s now silver hair and edges closer in their shared bed. “I might have died there ages ago.”

“Thorin,” he adds, and when the King under the Mountain opens his eyes he sees Bilbo’s eyes crinkled in a small smile. Age has worn laugh lines into his face, but not taken away any of his spark of beauty.

“Coming back may have not been the sensible or even right decision,” Bilbo admits, “But it was the one that made me happy. Maybe not every day, and certainly, life in Erebor is not always easy. But had I stayed, I think I would have always missed you. I'm happy here, you know that.”

“So rest assured,” Bilbo whispers, “Wrong or right, I have never regretted my decision.”

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I scarcely believe it, but after two years, I've finally written the small word "end" underneath a chapter. Theoretically there are questions to answer. Bilbo's and Thorin's journey doesn't quite stop here. (And yes, I might do editing, change scenes, etc.). But for now I hope I've given this a satisfying ending.
> 
> If there's anything you want to talk about - find me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


End file.
